Of A Soul
by fishwrites
Summary: GLEE&HIS DARK MATERIALS FUSION. Kurt dislikes McKinley for many reasons.Being the only boy with a daemon who still hasn't settled makes him an social outcast.When Karofsky crosses the line, Kurt is left with consequences that he isn't prepared for. Klaine
1. Prologue

**OF A**

**S O U L**

:i:

**_"You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body."_**

:i:

_a Glee & His Dark Materials fusion fic._

Fishwrites.

:i:

Kurt turned off the ignition, his hand resting momentarily on the steering wheel. In his rear-view mirror, he could see a cluster of letterman jackets, grouped casually around the dumpster. The usual then. Kurt sighed, pocketing his keys. Beside him in the passenger seat, a sleek gray cat stretched lazily, her claws extending.

"'Lizabeth, mind the leather."

Elizabeth only yawned, revealing pointed teeth.

"You'd think they'd give up already," said the cat, large yellow eyes blinking once, twice, as Kurt pulled his bag onto his shoulder, "You've missed a strand by the way. No, other side."

"It's because they all lack imagination, sweetheart," said Kurt, quickly fixing his hair and opening the driver's door. Elizabeth leaped gracefully from the seat and onto the tarmac, curling herself sinuously once around Kurt's ankles. The routine of it was comforting, and Kurt could pretend that his heart wasn't thumping uncomfortably hard in his throat as they made their way towards McKinley's front doors. Just because they hadn't managed to throw him into the dumpster in a year didn't mean they wouldn't keep trying. Their daemons - mostly dogs- growled threateningly. Kurt held his head high.

"Oi, Hummel!"

"Hey, Faggot. We're talking to you!"

Kurt kept his eyes fixed on the school doors and kept walking. One of the jocks – Puck – made a step to intercept him and the next second, the little grey cat was gone and in its place was a lioness, teeth bared. She was taller than the dogs, shoulders tense. Kurt could feel the tension vibrating through her and he curled his knuckles against her shoulder-blade. Elizabeth's long tail swayed dangerously.

"Good kitty," said Puck, holding his hands up in submission but somehow managing to look all the more cocky for it. His own daemon was nowhere to be seen, and not for the first time, Kurt wondered what it was. He paused…then immediately wished he hadn't. Puck's friends were slowly converging, their daemons' eyes all fixed on Elizabeth.

"You know she'll rip you all apart," said Kurt disdainfully. He tried to focus on his hand, fingers still buried in fur. The warmth of her was overwhelmingly reassuring.

"Yeah, maybe" said Puck, shrugging, "Until she settles."

"_If_ she settles," someone else interjected, "Who knows how the fag works?"

Elizabeth let out a rumbling growl, making one of the dogs retreat. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"I'd rather her never settle then manifest as a confirmation of my blind obedience to authority," he gave a pointed look at the bull-dog in front of him, "Like yours, Karofsky."

The boy screwed his face up in anger. The expression would have made Kurt laugh if there wasn't a fist that quickly followed it. The dog barked harshly, leaping forwards and Elizabeth took a swipe at her, mouth open and long fangs bared. They circled each other, while Kurt dodged another fist. Puck jerked Karofsky back by his jacket, hissing: "Dude!"

A shadow fell across Kurt's vision.

"Everything alright here?"

There was a pause.

"Yeah, Mr. Schue," said Puck, "Just makin' friends."

Mr. Schuester didn't look particularly convinced, but he only smiled, tucking his sunglasses into his breast pocket before walking way. Making most of the distraction, Kurt turned on his heels to follow, sidestepping a couple of seniors. Elizabeth gave the assembled bullies once last look at her long sharp teeth before trailing Kurt up the front steps. And even though they had barely been a few feet apart, Kurt let out a breath of relief when Elizabeth pressed herself against his leg. He smiled and pushed open the double doors.

Once inside the school, Elizabeth shifted back into the gray Siamese, ears twitching. Kurt obligingly held out one arm as she leapt up, settling herself neatly at the cradle of his neck, paws on his shoulder.

"Careful with the claws," said Kurt, smoothing one hand over her silky fur, "Burberry."

Elizabeth licked his ear in retaliation.

"When have I ever ruined your clothes?" she asked haughtily, wriggling out of his arms to ride on his shoulder. They continued down the corridor and Kurt smiled, despite himself.

"Alright, true."

"And that's why I'm a short haired Siamese today," Elizabeth continued, preening, "So I don't ruin this double breasted coat. I know things."

"And we complement each other," said Kurt, stopping by his locker. It popped open and Kurt proceeded to transfer the books from his bag onto the top shelf. "Your fur looks fabulous with this coat. I love you." Elizabeth gave him a feline grin and rubbed her face against his. However, her eyes narrowed as he reached for the familiar can of hairspray. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, hopping down from his shoulder to sit on his shoes. Kurt gave his hair a quick once over, before recapping the spray and slamming his locker shut.

"Alright!" said Kurt with faux enthusiasm, turning around, "Ready to-"

- and got a face full of raspberry slushie. He spluttered as Karofsky and Azimio roared with laughter. The cold ice dripping down his collar and Elizabeth yowled in indignation.

:i:

The first time Kurt had been thrown in the dumpster; Elizabeth had turned into a sparrow and darted into one of the trees in order to avoid being crushed by some beast of a dog.

The second time the jocks had cornered Kurt before school, his daemon had shifted abruptly into a lion the size of a small car and nearly ripped one of the dogs in half. The boy had been sent home in shock. _Kurt_ had been sent to the headmaster's office, his dad had been called in and all the while Elizabeth perched on his shoulder, a small black cat, her luminous eyes fixed unblinkingly on Figgins.

"You've got to control yourself!"

Burt had been unimpressed.

"A little hard to control yourself when you're being hackled by six hockey players."

Elizabeth and Kurt only exchange a long, satisfied look. Then she went back to staring at Figgins until his daemon (a mole rat, ugly thing) scampered out of sight, thoroughly unnerved. Kurt had been instructed to see Ms. Pillsbury about his "impulses", but other than that, Kurt could now walk into school relatively unmolested. The downside to all of this was that by the end of the day, the entire school knew that Kurt's daemon had yet to settle.

It wasn't that he was the only person with a daemon who still shifted from shape to shape. But he _was _the only one above the age of 14 who hadn't settled, and as much as he told himself it didn't matter, _it did_. There was a whole shelf of pamphlets proclaiming that it _did matter, _that the fact Elizabeth couldn't define herself was Kurt unable to "understand who he is". And Ms. Pillsbury looked so apologetic when she said things like that, it made Kurt cringe inside. It was one more difference that set him apart.

"I'm sure it will happen soon," said Elizabeth, peering at him over his laptop as he worked on his homework, "Stop sighing about it."

Kurt set down his pen.

"Well, I don't want to," he lied, "For you to settle I mean."

Elizabeth padded over. She was a Persian today, long white fur and big blue eyes. She licked his nose affectionately.

"Really?"

Kurt picked her up, cradling her close. He buried his nose between her ears, stroking his other hand slowly down her back. It wasn't as if she didn't know, because really, Elizabeth _was _Kurt when it came down to it. But it helped to pretend, sometimes.

"Of course. I dread the day when we can't be perfectly co-ordinated. It would seriously limit my wardrobe choices."

Elizabeth purred, and Kurt tried to master up a smile.

:i:

Glee club was reprieve because as long as he could sing, he could define himself. Of course, it hurt that Mr. Schuester was so eager to overlook his talent, easily dismissing Kurt was anything more than a backup, a chorus player. It was better than nothing, though. Music helped set the boundaries that was Kurt Hummel; like his impeccable fashion, singing spoke for him. Lyrics, keys, emotions set by modulations in key that were easily changed, _defined defined defined. _Sometimes, when he lay awake at night amidst all that _silence,_ Kurt wondered if he knew who he was at all.

Elizabeth was living proof that he _didn't._

:i:

Kurt knew, deep down, that his standards weren't all that high – after all, the primary reason he fell so hard for Finn was because he had been _less of a bully. _The reasoning, like most pieces of logic, didn't help in reality. In fact, Kurt found himself so pathetically infatuated that he was willing to forgo the "no dog daemon" rule. Because Finn's golden retriever was really adorable and would totally complement Kurt's Hermes's scarf. It was fate, clearly.

"It's a bad idea," said Elizabeth sternly, "He's so straight it hurts to look at him."

"There's no zero on the Kinsey scale," Kurt half snag, blu-taking a selection of sample prints onto his swatch board, "He will be overwhelmed by our mutual interests and my devotion to his well being that he can't help but fall in love. How's this?"

Elizabeth transformed into a robin, deliberately planting her feet on a sheet of paint samples.

"You're not listening. It's a _bad idea. _You don't honestly think it's going to work, do you? Plus- " she pecked at a sparkly piece of wall paper, picking it up in her beak and depositing it on the other side of the board, "- it's morally unsound."

Kurt folded his arms, annoyed.

"Morally unsound? Who are you, my conscience?"

Elizabeth preened.

"Yes. Literally."

"God, you're impossible," said Kurt, closing the board and forcing Elizabeth to fly off, feathers ruffled, "I thought you'd be at least a little supportive. Don't you support true love?"

"I can't support insanity," said Elizabeth primly, glaring at Kurt with her beady bird eyes, "You should just _tell _him if you like him so much."

"I sang _I honestly Love You _for our duet project, Beth! I wore McKinley colours for a week! A _week _– any more obviousness and I might as well jump him in the corridors!"

There was a moment of silence.

"Maybe you should," said Elizabeth, setting her wing feathers in place before shifting into a large tabby cat. Kurt only let out an exasperated noise and flung himself onto his bed.

:i:

The first time Kurt touched someone else's daemon, he was only eight years old.

Burt had a bear for his daemon; dark brown fur and huge heavy paws. Kurt was sure this was the reason why Figgins was so terrified of his father, because Burt and Rose made a _very_ intimidating pair. It was probably also the reason that their garage never got robbed, the reason why no one dared bully Kurt too much when he was little. Rose was the very definition of fabulous.

Then Kurt's mother died.

At eight, Kurt had an acute dislike for two things; hospitals and churches. The former was too stark, too real, while the latter lacked in both qualities. He remembered the way shoes squeaked across hospital tiles, especially if you ran, especially if it's too late. He remembered hard plastic chairs, plastic tables and plastic tasting granola bars his father bought him while they waited outside a white hospital door that looked like every other door in the building. He remembered the flowers, left on his mother's bedside table.

They were real, and they wilted.

Churches were even worse – Kurt had been small for his age, Elizabeth shifting in and out of shapes every few minutes, a robin, a cat, a tiny lizard with red-forked tongue. When his mother's cat daemon abruptly vanished from the end of her hospital bed, Elizabeth had let out a keening nose so terrible it almost drowned out the sound of Burt sobbing in the chair by the window. Churches were people in drab black suits, coat collars turned up against the December wind. Churches were stained glass windows that filtered through coloured light (red, green, yellow, blue). They fell in patches of distorted shades, melting over his mother's coffin.

The sixth time Elizabeth changed, Burt lay a heavy hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"Stop it," he said, eyes on the speaker at the front, "_Kurt._"

"But-"

The hand tightened on his shoulder. Kurt remembered the weight of it, the expression on his father's face – Rose silent and still as a statue next to them both. Elizabeth wavered, before turning into a cat and leaping into Kurt's skinny arms.

"I'm sorry," she said, her nose cold against Kurt's neck, "I can't help it. I hate this."

Kurt glanced up at his father, then hugged Elizabeth tightly, closing his eyes.

"I want mom," he admitted.

The service dragged on and on. Elizabeth didn't change once.

After the service, Burt had driven them both home in silence. Kurt watched his father's face out of the corner of his eye, wanting to say something but the words kept getting lodged in his throat. He suspected that he wouldn't be able to stop crying if he started talking, so he didn't, because his dad wasn't crying either. Elizabeth still had her head tucked firmly in Kurt's collar, eyes shut and ears flat on her head. Kurt stared at his shoes instead, until his dad turned off the engine of the car and _then _there was silence.

"You hungry, kiddo?"

Kurt shook his head.

"Alright. There's ham in the fridge – you know how to make a sandwich right?"

Kurt nodded.

"Right," said Burt gruffly, opening the door then slamming it shut. A moment later, Kurt followed suit while Rose lumbered off the back of the truck to follow Burt inside. Wind whipped stray leaves around Kurt's ankles, and the walk up to the front door had never seemed so _wrong _before.

Stopping on the threshold, Kurt said, voice plaintive:

"Dad? I want mom."

His dad paused, one hand on the doorway to the living room. His black tie was already off, draped over one of the dining room chairs. He sighed, and Kurt remembered the sensation of breathlessness, the feeling that someone had taken hold of his chest and was squeezing until he ached deep inside. The kitchen was empty, but his mother's apron was still hung on its usual hook by the fridge. Her glossy cook books (photographs of cupcakes and fancy desserts which Kurt loved to look through, smearing the paper with flour) were still on the shelf, one open near the bread bin. The CD player still had her CD in it, Kurt was sure of it. And because there was such overwhelming evidence, Kurt said again;

"I want mom."

"_Goddamit_, Kurt," snapped his dad, voice suddenly too loud, making Kurt start, "we went through this – your mother's not here anymore!"

Elizabeth let out a pitiful noise, muffled against Kurt's shoulder. Kurt tried to blink away tears, but his vision blurred with them. He sniffed, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"But Dad…"

Then quietly, Rose padded across the kitchen. The next thing Kurt knew, he was enveloped in thick, warm fur that smelt like the comfy chair in the living room, his dad's jacket and felt like _homehomehome. _The shock of it startled him into silence, tears frozen on his cheeks. He could feel the rumbling, deep and familiar, as Rose tucked him into her embrace. She was very warm, her fur soft against his cheek. Rose stared at Elizabeth – a pair of big brown eyes to a pair of small blue ones.

His dad was standing, frozen in the door way.

For a long moment, nothing stirred except the muffled sound of the clock in the living room.

Then Burt crossed the room with a heavy sigh, extracting Kurt from Rose's embrace and holding him tight in his own.

"Let's bake some cookies or something," said Burt, one hand running soothing patterns across Kurt's back as Kurt cried messily into his father's suit jacket, "The ones you made last time with mom. They were pretty fantastic. Hey now, stop the waterworks. Come on. You know, I think I spotted some chocolate chips in the pantry the other day. Should we try those?"

Kurt didn't remember making the cookies. But he remembered his dad settling down at the kitchen table with Kurt in his lap, all elbows and knees. He could feel Rose, a comforting presence in the room – he could _always _feel Rose from that day onwards. He remembered Elizabeth licking his father's hand, tentatively. He remembered his dad's voice, rumbling low and soothing; being slowly lulled to sleep.

:i:


	2. Chapter One

**OF A **

**S**** O U L**

:i:

"_Emotions are colours of the Soul."_

:i:

**CHAPTER ONE**

:i:

When Kurt was nine, he had a Disney marathon with his dad.

They had watched all the classics: _Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Little Mermaid, Peter Pan_ and _Lady & the Tramp._ They had TV dinner of gourmet pizzas and home-made lemonade (Kurt had found the recipe in a box full of random note paper and used dairies when they were cleaning out the basement). By the time dinner was over and they were twenty minutes into _Bambi, _Kurt was curled up comfortably beside his dad on the couch, Elizabeth purring drowsily in his lap while Rose rested her head on her paws, staring at the screen with a glazed expression.

"You do realise animals can't talk, don't you son," said Burt, interrupting a throng of rabbits who were singing in a flower meadow, Kurt along with them. "Or sing."

"Duh," said Kurt. He took a sip of lemonade because singing along to all the songs made you _thirsty, _while Burt ate the last slice of cold pizza.

Then everything went wrong.

On screen, Bambi's mother froze, snow swirling around them. Then there was terrible music, the kind that let you know something _horrible _was going to happen before it did. It was the music of inevitability, but even that didn't stop Kurt from screaming when the gunshot rang out.

"Jesus!" exclaimed his dad, almost knocking over the coffee table from fright, "What-"

Bambi was running through the snow, still unaware that _everything had gone wrong _and it wasn't until the screen was suddenly obscured by flannel did Kurt realise he was crying. His dad pulled him into his lap, while Elizabeth meowed pitifully; scratching Kurt's jean leg while he sobbed into Burt's shoulder.

"They_ shot_ her! Dad! She's dead_she'sdeadshe'sdead."_

"It's just a stupid cartoon," said Burt, running a hand up and down Kurt's back, "Shhh, come on, it's just a cartoon."

"They shot his _mom._"

There was the sound of remote clicking and the screen switched off to black. Kurt pressed face into his dad's shoulder, hard, so that rainbows burst behind his eyelids – anything to erase the image of Bambi running across the screen, shouting _Mother? Mother? Mother!_

"I knew I shouldn't have bought you those DVDs," said Burt, hugging him tight, "Goddamn Disney."

Kurt only sobbed harder.

At some point, he fell asleep; exhausted from the crying.

:i:

It was all Brittany's fault, Kurt decided. Brittany's fault that he was dressed in football gear and was about to seriously damage his hair and possibly his pores (all that sweating could _not _be good for his complexion). If she hadn't run her mouth off, his dad wouldn't think that Kurt was on the football team. If she had just _stopped talking, _Kurt wouldn't have to try out for the football team, possibly getting mauled by homophobic jocks in the process. All. Brittany's fault. On the up side, it had given him a legitimate excuse to spend more time with Finn.

"I don't want to look," said Elizabeth, her eyes squeezed shut in a comical feline expression, "I'm not going to look."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," said Kurt primly, adjusting his headband. In the not-so-far-distance, the coach was shouting at the team. Kurt grimaced and concentrated on his stretching. He was going to make the team, make his dad proud, and hopefully chalk up another common interest with Finn. All was going To Plan.

"I just don't want to get slushied every hour," scowled Elizabeth, "Do you realise how hard it is to get food colouring out of this fur? Terrible."

"Well think about it as a win-win situation," said Kurt, waiting a little anxiously for Finn's signal to come over, "If I get in, no more slushies. No more dumpster tosses. Dad gives my car back."

"And if you don't make the team?"

"…"

"My thoughts exactly."

Kurt picked up the CD player, squared his shoulders, and set off across the field. Elizabeth let out a put-upon sigh, shifted into a yellow lioness and followed.

:i:

"My body is like a chocolate soufflé. If I don't warm it up right, it doesn't rise."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and licked her sharp row of teeth, just to make the point.

:i:

And then his dad was looking at him with such a soft expression on his face, it took all of Kurt's strength of will not to break down sobbing. Instead, he let himself be pulled into a bear hug. Rose made a rumbling sort of sound, and out of the corner of his eye, Kurt caught his daemon pressing herself close to Rose's furry shoulder. Then Elizabeth started grooming Rose's left paw. Rose huffed.

"You know I'll always love you," said Burt, pulling back a little, "No matter what."

Kurt could only nod.

:i:

"Hey – Hey, Kurt. Wait up."

Kurt paused in the corridor, one hand on the strap of his bag as Finn caught up. He tried to school his face into nonchalance, hiding the surprise and the flip-flop feeling in his stomach as Finn's golden retriever ambled up, all floppy ears and dopey-canine smile. She circled one around Kurt, tail wagging, while Elizabeth sat neatly by Kurt's right boot, tail curled around his ankle. Her ears twitched.

"That was, um, really good game on Saturday," said Finn, smiling a little awkwardly, "You were really – you were really great."

Kurt could _feel _wrinkles forming from how hard he was smiling.

"I told you guys that dancing was the way forward."

"We totally won because of you!" exclaimed Finn, punching Kurt on the shoulder so hard it made him stumble backwards (but Kurt didn't, couldn't stop smiling), "I'll see you at practice tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Kurt intelligently, watching as Finn disappeared into the busy throng of students heading to the cafeteria.

"You're screwed," said Elizabeth.

:i:

"Who can tell me what this is?" said Ms. De Malmanche. She wore her customary white lab-coat, grey glasses cutting a severe line beneath her eyebrows. Behind her, the projector switched to a photograph of an old, brass-ended contraption, not unlike a telescope.

"Amber Spyglass," someone called out.

"Correct. This," said the physics teacher, gesturing, "Is an illustration of the first 'telescope' that allowed the human eye to see anti-matter; then known as "dust". This was created almost eight centuries ago, and the prototype remains in England, on display at the Malone British Museum. It's an early and less advanced version of our own Fritz Zwickian microscope*."

Beside Kurt, Brittany leaned over and whispered conspiratorially;

"We can see sparkles with it."

Her daemon, a handsome white rabbit, was eating steadily into her notebook. Kurt nodded absently, only half listening to Ms. De Malmanche as she set three large instruments in front of her. They were a cross between pirate telescopes and normal scientific microscopes, mounted on a stand which allowed the user to rotate and tilt the eyepiece as well as directing the lens on the other end.

"This is extremely expensive equipment – so any one who breaks anything will be brutally murdered. I want you all to pair off, then take turns examining the objects around the lab, taking note of the anti-matter density around each. You have ten minutes each – begin!"

"It's what magic is made out of," said Brittany, smiling, "Santana told me. Are you excited?"

Kurt didn't have the heart to correct her.

It wasn't that Kurt didn't know what anti-matter looked like; it was all there in the textbook, photographs taken from special films that looked like someone had sprinkled dots all over it. But looking through the microscope, Kurt had to agree with Brittany that anti-matter looked very much like sparkles. They hung in the air, as if it was water, looking like gold dust yet the way they glittered wasn't quite the same. The pot plant had very little dust on it, but the projector was almost buried beneath it. Elizabeth had dust clinging to the end of her tail.

"My turn, my turn," said Brittany. "Wow, Kurt – your hair is so sparkly!"

Several people around them sniggered.

"It's consciousness. So it means _I_ have a brain," said Kurt flatly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

Elizabeth stuck her face curiously into one end of the microscope. Brittany shrieked, and Kurt jumped about a mile in his seat, almost knocking the microscope over. Brittany flapped her hands in the air hysterically.

"That was so scary!" said Brittany, eyes wide, "It was like seeing an explosion. With eyes."

"You nearly gave me a heart att-"

"You two!" snapped Ms. De Malmache, "Ten minutes is up! Pass it on to the next pair please!"

"I couldn't see anything special," said Elizabeth, hopping down from the table and curling up in Kurt's lap.

"That's because we understand how it works," said Kurt, idly turning a page of his text book, "Isn't special if you understand it."

Beside him, Brittany ripped out her half-nibbled page of notepaper and passed it to her daemon. She proceeded to draw up a table with her ruler. One column had a list of objects around the room. In the other table, she began rating the objects with stars out of five, drawn in with yellow gel pen. "Kurt's Hair" got six stars.

At the front of the class, the teacher began explaining the physics behind particle density.

:i:

Kurt sometimes wondered if Mr. Schue lacked imagination – especially when it came to "girls versus boys" competitions. Especially since he wouldn't allow Kurt to join the girls, even though his talents would obviously be better suited on that side of the room. Instead, he was stuck with four guys, two of whom had once thrown him into a dumpster.

"Dude will you cut that out?" said Puck, half way through Kurt explaining that they really needed better costumes than ripped jeans and trainers. Finn had seemed to agree at first…but then Kurt noticed he was only nodding along and probably wasn't even listening.

"Cut what out, Puckerman?" said Kurt, annoyed.

Puck waved a hand at Elizabeth, who was currently a nightingale, perched on Kurt's shoulder.

"She's changed like, three times in the last forty minutes. It's creeping me out, man."

Kurt blinked, and he could feel Elizabeth's warm feathery body go still next to his neck. He blinked again, trying to swallow past the lump that was suddenly lodged in his throat, along with the cold familiar feeling in his stomach; it was almost like anger, but not quite. He saw Finn kick Puck's chair in a not-so-subtle hint. Puck only glared at his friend and continued, slouching back in his seat.

"No, seriously, Hummel. What is up with all the shifting?"

"At least I have a daemon," snapped Kurt, hand coming up reflexively to stroke over Elizabeth's wings, "I have yet to see yours. What is it….a worm you keep in your pocket? Because that would explain a lot."

Puck leapt up from his chair, looking outraged.

"You little fa-!"

"Dude, give it a rest," interrupted Finn, pulling Puck back by the sleeve.

"He just insulted Puckzilla!" protested Puck.

"Considering I haven't seen 'Puckzilla', it's hardly an insult," said Kurt, folding his arms, "No really, are you that embarrassed?"

"Yeah, for you – you're like the only person I know who hasn't settled," Puck shuddered in an exaggerated fashion, "It's freaky."

And it wasn't like Puck was his friend per se – not even close. But it didn't stop the words from feeling like a slap to the face, shoving all thoughts of music and choreography aside. None of the Glee club had brought up Elizabeth before; aware that the ever shifting daemon was not up for discussion. Kurt should have known it was too good to last. Without another word, he scooped up his bag from the piano stool and stalked out of the room, ignoring Finn and Mike calling his name.

He was already in the car park before Kurt remembered that his folder of music was still sitting on top of the piano. He cursed, unlocking his car and dumping his bag in the passenger seat.

"Kurt?" said Elizabeth, tentatively.

Kurt slammed the door shut and went around to the driver's side. Elizabeth was forced from his shoulder, wings fluttering, perching on the rear-view mirror instead. Kurt did up his seat belt and put the car into reverse.

"Just ignore them," said Elizabeth after a long stretch of silence, "Who cares what they-"

"Beth, I really don't want to talk about that right now."

The nightingale fell silent.

When they pulled up in front of the house, Elizabeth followed Kurt inside without a word, wings brushing his cheek as she fluttered down to resume her perch on his shoulder. There was a weight pulling inside Kurt's chest, and even after he had taken a long shower, he still felt misplaced inside his own skin. He distracted himself for a while, preparing dinner. It was almost seven o'clock when Burt came through the door. Kurt busied himself setting the table. Elizabeth didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

When Kurt woke up next morning, she was still a nightingale.

:i:

There was a reason Burt never worried about having alcohol in the house – neither him nor Kurt were in the habit of getting drunk and Kurt was far too health-conscious to get drunk on his own so that wasn't a worry either.

Until one April Rhodes got Kurt absolutely _smashed._

"I think…" Elizabeth slurred, perched precariously on Kurt's shoulder, "I think I could get used to this. 'Tis niiiiiice."

"Mmmm," said Kurt, trying to concentrate on walking in a straight line. Around him, the usual hustle and bustle of the McKinley corridor was strangely muted, as if there was a protective fog between Kurt and them. It was a nice sensation, like walking through marshmallow. Kurt stuck his tongue out, just in case he _was _walking through marshmallow.

"Ms. Rhodes' so nice. We're going to ask for more of that cocktail thing," said Elizabeth, and Kurt could feel her tail swishing left, right, left, right over his shoulder.

"Dad has gin," said Kurt. "I think." Apparently Elizabeth had a much higher tolerance for alcohol than he did, which was just unfair considering they were meant to be the _same person. _

"Not the saaame stuff," Elizabeth whined, kneading her paws into his shoulder-pad, "I want the same stuff tomorrow. You drank it all this morning!"

"No," said Kurt, "there's still – _hic – _some left in my bag." He patted his bag to prove it – then frowned when the bag wasn't there, paused, then patted his right side instead. He almost fell over when the bell signaling start of first period went off like a siren right above his head. Elizabeth fell off his shoulder with a yowl of protest. Kurt didn't even think it was _possible_ for cats to fall off anything.

They made their way past a group of letterman jackets, unslushied. That fact alone proved that April Rhodes really knew what she was talking about; Kurt made a mental note to thank her in Glee practice later that week. He shuffled carefully forwards, head still enveloped in that marshmallow haze, though thanks to the bell, there was the beginning of a headache too. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, then kept going. It was taking an awfully long time to reach his locker.

And then, Bambi appeared.

By his ankles, Elizabeth dug her claws into Kurt's right shoe. Kurt could only stare. Was Bambi _talking?_ Elizabeth let out a confused sort of _mew. _Kurt could feel all his childhood trauma come flooding in at once. It was like a wave was welling up inside his chest and be blinked.

"_Oh Bambi_…I cried so hard when they shot your mommy."

That welling up sensation didn't stop and Kurt suddenly realised that Bambi didn't really look like Bambi anymore. And that was when he threw up all over Ms. Pillsbury's shoes.

:i:

Kurt's mom had a cat daemon; a beautiful Persian cat that always entwined itself around Kurt's ankles when he was a toddler. It would sit sedately on the kitchen bench, tail curled about itself as his mom pulled a fresh tray of baking from the oven. Sometimes, it would fall asleep next to rose, white fur against dark, chocolate brown.

Ever since Rose enveloped Kurt in her embrace, he had been able to sense his Father's emotions like the tide being pulled in by the moon. It only happened usually when Burt was really angry or worked up about something. Usually, it was just a hum of love that made Kurt feel warm.

He caught his father looking at Elizabeth whenever she was in feline form, and the sadness in his eyes always made Kurt feel like a disappointment. It tasted like grief; bitter and sad.

:i:

It was a Wednesday when Karofsky slammed Kurt into his locker so hard he actually couldn't get up straight away. His back _hurt_ – the shock of impact quickly turning into throbbing pain, and Kurt knew there were going to be some magnificent bruises before school was out for the day. Slowly, he pulled his legs closer to his chest, letting his head fall back against the cool metal of a locker door. At least it wasn't a slushie – the colouring would have ruined the shirt he was wearing today. Kurt took a few deep breaths, just trying to keep himself as still as possible until the pain his back subsided. Elizabeth was hissing angrily at whoever walked too closely, her fur standing on end. She resembled a small lion by now, a reflexive reaction to Kurt being pushed around.

After a long moment, Kurt pushed himself to his feet, wincing when he had to bend down to retrieve his phone from a few feet away. Luckily, the screen hadn't cracked.

"I'm going to _eat _him," Elizabeth snarled, pacing the length of the lockers, "I'll rip that bull dog in half."

Kurt hoisted his bag gingerly onto the shoulder that was aching less than the other, pocketing his phone.

"Please don't. I'll probably go to juvie for that."

Elizabeth growled. "He's a stupid Neanderthal who deserves no mercy."

Kurt sighed, straightening his collar. Even moving his arm sent a twang of discomfort up his back, shoulders throbbing from where they had hit metal. And it was only Wednesday.

"We'll be late for French," he said, reluctantly, "Come on. Yellow doesn't really go with this scarf at all."

Elizabeth sat down on her haunches and fixed him with a fierce look.

"I should stay like this all the time. Then we'll see who dares to slam you into the lockers."

A lead weight, cold and unforgiving, sank through Kurt's stomach. Because that was_ it_, wasn't it; the fact that one Elizabeth settled, Kurt's life was going to be hell at McKinley. Because Kurt knew deep down, Elizabeth wasn't going to be a lion, or a lioness or anything so brave or individual. Beneath the dazzling clothes, scarves and fabulous fedoras was a drab gray soul like all the other drab gray souls and sometimes Kurt didn't want Elizabeth to settle for _fear _of the disappointment. The fear was so sharp he could taste it nearly all the time, a bitter aftertaste at the back of his throat, wondering if today was the day when Karofsky was going to beat the shit out of him and Elizabeth wouldn't be able to do a thing. _If she settles before you leave, _whispered a traitorous voice at the back of his head, _if she settles at all_. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, as if she had heard that particular thought. But she said nothing, only pressed closer to his ankles as they walked.

Kurt took a deep breath, trying to calm the rabbit heartbeat in his chest.

It was also a Wednesday when Mr. Schuester announced that they would be singing from _Wicked, _which effectively cured all Kurt's bruises in the space of two words: _Defying Gravity._ Beside him, Elizabeth sat up straight in her plastic chair, ears flicking forward from where they had been pressed grumpily to the top of her head, feline eyes zeroed in on the sheet music in Mr. Schue's hands. The teacher's daemon, a handsomely feathered duck, sat atop the piano.

"It turns out that the judges like songs that are more accessible," said Mr. Schue, "songs that they know – for example, Broadway."

Excitement was like April's alcoholic concoction, it filled Kurt with a warm sort of buzz that made it really difficult to sit still. They were going to sing this for _sectionals. _Suddenly the day was looking a whole lot better.

"Defying Gravity?" said Kurt, "I have an iPod shuffle dedicated exclusively to selections from Wicked. This is amazing!"

Kurt clutched the sheet music he had been handed, but before he could say anything about the solo, Mr. Schue said;

"…Rachel is singing it."

Rachel's daemon preened, flicking his brilliant peacock feathers as Rachel beamed. Kurt felt like the carpet had been pulled out from beneath his feet. Mr. Schue continued to talk about sectionals, about how the school won't pay for the special bus for Artie's wheelchair and how they were all going to have a bake sale in order to raise funds. But all Kurt could really think about was the song – and how it was only going to be yet another thing on the list of things he desperately wanted… but would never have. Beside him, Elizabeth dug her sharpened claws vindictively into the plastic chair and clawed parallel lines into the seat.

:I:

Sometimes, Kurt wished Elizabeth would settle just so that he wouldn't have to walk down the school halls knowing that people either avoided him because they thought he was abnormal or pushed him into lockers because they thought he was abnormal. Most days, like Wednesdays, Kurt couldn't imagine a life without his daemon – settled or no.

"You're too good for them anyway," she was saying as they walked through the front doors at the day. She was a fierce golden eagle, beak dangerously curved, talons digging into Kurt's bag strap. The football players at the bottom of the steps took one look at her and gave them a wide berth, for which Kurt was grateful – his back still hurt.

"I just really wanted to sing that," sighed Kurt, "we love Wicked, right?"

"Right," said Elizabeth sympathetically. She straightened a few of her wing feathers before shuffling along his shoulder to preen his hair, one strand at a time. Kurt couldn't help but smile, reaching up to run a finger over the eagle's head.

"It's probably my favourite song of all time. Of _all time. _But then I guess I didn't really expect this to go down any other way." Kurt fished out his car keys, unlocking the door with a beep. "If Mr. Schue won't let me sing with the girls for that stupid mash up, it's not like he's going to give me a girl's lead."

"Maybe he's thinking of the judges?" said Elizabeth, shifting into a cat so she wouldn't scratch the upholstery with her claws. She leapt onto the passenger seat, settling into the dip of the leather.

Kurt rolled his eyes, dumping his school bag on the floor and climbing into the driver's seat.

"Don't think so, somehow." Elizabeth eyed him for a moment, before padding over into his lap. She put both front paws on his chest, eyes like x-rays. Kurt gave in and picked her up, holding her close. Elizabeth licked his chin affectionately, letting out a contented purr when he scratched behind her ears.

"Rachel has a voice like a cat being stepped on. I should know." said Elizabeth finally, "It's like she's screaming all the time."

"I just wish-"

"Yeah."

A moment of silence.

"Do you want to have a _No Good Deed _sing off on your dad's surround system?" suggested Elizabeth.

Kurt couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up inside his chest, even though it still hurt a little. He kissed Elizabeth on the nose and put the car into reverse.

:i:

"Where's my jelly cream center?" asked Burt, flipping open the paper carton. Rose looked a little put out at the absence of her favourite donut.

"Sorry Dad, I must have forgotten." That was half true – he had been so occupied with Wicked that he had forgotten about the jelly cream center until the girl was putting the food in the bag. Then he had just decided to continue to forget in the interests of his Dad's health and blood sugar levels.

"What's up with your brain today?" said Burt grumpily, sitting down, "You know what, I think it's going soft from all that crap you put in your hair."

Kurt shot his dad an unimpressed look while Elizabeth gave Rose one of her own.

"It's organic," he said, "I'm fine."

A pause. Guilt tickled at the back of Kurt's throat.

"Sorry, it's a glee club thing," admitted Kurt.

His dad swallowed his bite of donut, watching Kurt's expression with what was a distinctly shrewd sort of look.

"It's not about a guy is it? 'Cus I'm not ready to have that conversation."

_I wish, _thought Kurt dryly, _All the guys around here either want to run away from me or beat me up._ Elizabeth snorted into her bowl of water. Then she sneezed, ears flicking back as she got water up her nose. Rose shot her a concerned look.

"At least you don't have to worry about me getting someone pregnant," said Kurt, playing with the edge of his scarf. His dad continued to chew his donut, still watching Kurt with that same expression until Kurt said, "it's not a guy. We're doing this amazing song for sectionals. A personal favourite of mine and…Mr. Schuester won't give me a chance to sing it."

"Why?" asked Burt, sounding indignant.

"It's traditionally sung by a girl," said Kurt, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (bad for wrinkles, bad for wrinkles) while Elizabeth abandoned the water bowl and stalked slowly across the table.

"You sing like a girl," said Burt, gesturing with his donut, "You know, in a good way."

Kurt nodded.

"Look, Kurt, I don't know how this music stuff works. I'm pretty exclusively dedicated to my _Mellencamp_ collection-"

Kurt stopped nodding. "-but isn't there more crossover nowadays? You know, chicks doing construction… guys wearing dress shoes with no socks? Didn't that girl from your high school just join the boy's wrestling team?"

Kurt had a sudden flashback of the girl in question, flattening her opponent to the gym floor. Her daemon was a timid looking field mouse, but her reputation more than made up for it. Kurt was a bit disturbed as to why his father was comparing him to a female wrestler. Then he noticed that Elizabeth had used Burt's distraction to her advantage and was now nosing in his lunch box. For something that didn't technically need food, Elizabeth had an affinity for anything with sugar in it. Kurt picked her up around the middle and deposited her in his lap with a stern look.

"Yes," he conceded, "but her parents had to sue the school. _You,_" he told Elizabeth, "Will get fat. I will not have a sugar laden soul."

Elizabeth sulked.

Burt continued to watch them from across the work bench. He was still chewing thoughtfully, and Kurt wondered if that wasn't a glint in his father's eye. Burt and Rose shared a _look_.

:i:

"_You're son is a fag."_

Burt had to stop himself from smashing the phone to pieces.

:i:

Kurt felt the excitement of hitting high F drain out of him at the sight of his dad's face. It left him a little cold, even though he was wearing his new Alexander McQueen sweater.

"What's going on?" he asked, voice tentative.

"I got a phone-call this morning," said Burt, voice low and hard. Kurt had never heard his dad like this. "The anonymous kind. It was some dude telling me my son was a fag."

"Oh," said Kurt. Because what else was there to say? Elizabeth, ears pressed back to her head, glanced at his dad then wriggled out of Kurt's arms. She was white today, to match his sweater; a Persian cat with luxurious fur. She half hid herself behind Kurt's legs, shoulders tense. Beside the work bench, Rose was like a statue, eyes trained on the open garage door.

Kurt swallowed hard.

"Well that's not a big deal, I get that all the time."

"Yeah, but I don't," said Burt. Then, "I just don't want you to get hurt."

_Why was it so hard to swallow?_

"So you don't want me to audition for the solo," offered Kurt, because that seemed so insignificant now compared to the expression on his father's face. It was worse than being 'accidently' elbowed in the stomach, worse than the breathlessness that preceded pain. It made Kurt want to curl up and disappear. But his dad was shaking his head;

"No, no. Let me be clear, alright. _No one_ pushes the Hummels around. Especially cowards on the phone."

There was a long moment of silence. Kurt could feel Elizabeth, pressed close to his ankles. And he could _feel_ his father's emotions in waves, almost indistinguishable from his own except for the way Rose was looking at him. There was anger, sharp and bitter, but the low thrum of worry and protectiveness was almost overwhelming. Kurt could only stand there, frozen without words.

"Sometimes…I wish your mom was still here, you know," said Burt, sounding like the words were being forced out of him. He was staring at Elizabeth, expression pained. "She was better at handling this stuff…handling me."

:i:

Kurt threw the note.

Two hours away, Blaine Anderson turned a golden alethiometer over in his hands.

:i:

**(Author's Notes) **I took some liberties with Pullman's world, factoring in technological progress and kinda meshing it with our own world. Hence the "Fritz Zwickian microscope" is like a more precise, scientific version of the "amber spyglass" in HDM. The name comes from Firtz Zwicky, a scientist who was one of the first to study so-called "dark matter". There's going to be variations and fusions; for example, I'm planning to keep the Magisterium as part of the governing system in his AU of America, where religion and science are an integral part of state. I think the existence of Daemons will change *a lot* of what makes up government in our world so yeah. Creating a fusion of both where science & technology meet "magic".

Blaine & Co. Will be entering the plot soon, promise. :P Just a question for you all – would you prefer me to create a Dalton with more of a HDM leaning or set it in a sort-of AU a la cpcoulter? I'm open to ideas. I'm also looking for a beta – anyone? :D


	3. Chapter Two

OF A

S O U L

:i:

"_Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.__"_

:i:

**CHAPTER TWO**

:i:

Like most children whose parents worked for the Magisterium, Blaine was put through all the Potentiality tests at a young age. Unlike many of these children, Mrs. And Mr. Anderson introduced Blaine to the alethiometer as soon as he could read.

Young children usually had a natural intuition for basic alethiometry. But with their youth also came the barrier of understanding: most were limited to yes-and-no answers, black and white truths which truths rarely were. Blaine was no different. One of his most vivid childhood memories was sitting on the chaise long with his mother, the way her hands felt as she guided him through all the intricate symbols on the alethiometer. By the age of six, the weight of the device was already a familiar one in Blaine's small hands. He was talented…but so were most Potentials at his age.

It had begun as an accident. Bored from an afternoon in the sun with his daemon, Blaine wandered about the house. He contemplated the pros and cons of eating the rest of the cookies in the pantry. On the way to the kitchen, he paused at by his mother's study – peering curiously through the heavy wooden door. It was just like every other door in the house; dark smooth wood and polished brass handle. But unlike the other doors, this one had been left ajar.

It was simply too much temptation for a nine year old Blaine to resist. He pushed the door further open; glancing up and down the landing to make sure his mom wasn't going to come tell him off. His father wasn't going to be home until Friday, so everything was safe on that front (Blaine wouldn't dare to go into his father's study anyway, even if the door was wide open.) A short look wasn't going to hurt anyone. Blaine slipped into the room.

"We're going to get into so much trouble," hissed Audrey, scampering from one shoulder to the other, little mouse ears flicking. Audrey finally decided to make a death-defying leap for Blaine's hair; climbing onto his head and making a temporary nest in his curls.

"Shhh," said Blaine, ever so stealthy.

The room wasn't anything remarkable, to be honest. The lights were off and the curtains were half drawn, throwing a long slender line of sunshine across the deep red carpet. The bookshelves lining the walls were in shadow, and Blaine could make out the shape of a globe on the top shelf, a telescope and other strangely shaped things. There was a chart with tiny numbers spanning the width of the wall opposite the window. A large mahogany desk occupied most of the floor space, sunlight painting a stripe of gold across something that glinted attractively.

Blaine made a beeline for the desk. Audrey shifted into a kitten, jumping lighting onto the table (scrabbling a little on the lacquered wood) while Blaine climbed onto the high-backed leather chair so he could see the desktop properly. He carefully left the stack of papers and files untouched, making sure he didn't knock over the metallic 3D puzzle thing beside the said papers. It was probably one of those brain-teaser puzzles, thick bits of oddly shaped metal that would piece together to form a shape. But Blaine wasn't interested in that right now; there was a large black jewellery box on the table. Its lid had been left open to reveal a plush interior, where a large golden pocket-watch-thing sat snug in velvet. The sunlight glinted off the gold chain and the engraved lid, and Audrey sniffed at it with curiosity.

"What is it?" he asked, tail swaying.

"Not sure," said Blaine, glancing at the door to the study before lifting the large watch carefully from its box. It was heavy; the metal cool to the touch and it took Blaine several moments before figuring out how to open the clasp. It popped open without a sound; breathless like a gasp.

It wasn't a watch – it was something much more beautiful. Blaine's eyes were wide with wonder, fingers tracing the edge of the glass behind which needle-like hands spun lazily above tiny, intricate pictures.

"Oh wow," whispered Audrey, "That's pretty."

"What do you think it's for?" asked Blaine, turning the object this way and that, admiring the way the sunlight would reflect off the crystal and gold.

"It kinda looks like a compass," said Audrey, giving the lid a tentative lick, "Real gold."

"Maybe it's a present," suggested Blaine, examining the little pictures. He stared hard at them, head tilted to one side – an early Christmas present for his father? Little Blaine stared some more.

The needles began to move.

:i:

Kurt had always thought he was fine at self-definition. In fact, he prided himself on being individual,_ different_, someone who was meant for bigger and better things than the crude social ladder and expectations of Lima. But now, his ever changing wardrobe (chosen to stand out, stand out, never blend in) seemed a little superfluous, undecided, _unsettled._

But this –

He had never anticipated what it truly meant to be part of something that gave you instant status. He wasn't sure what this was, but just one taste of it had him doubting, wanting, _smiling_.

_This_ was thousand watt spotlights flaring out white, _this _was singing, belting your heart out into a microphone and having an audience who screamed back their applause. It was an exhilarating feeling, a taste that was on the roof of his mouth even after the last note had faded away from the ringing speakers. He was a little out of breath and vaguely Kurt hoped they had turned off the microphones because he was sure they could hear his heart rabbiting hard against his ribcage-

Beside him, Mercedes shot him a triumphant, glowing sort of look and Kurt was smiling so hard his face _hurt_. He had never seen his friend so confident before; not when she was singing her lone note at the end of ballads and group numbers, not when she was dressed up to the nines because they thought it was the only way for them to define themselves, to paint their identity so full of sharp lines and bright colours that all the other mediocrities of life faded away. Kurt allowed himself a greedy, breath-catching glance over the students, all of whom were cheering, applauding, applauding _him._

It was intoxicating. Addictive. He glanced down to where Elizabeth, sleek and grey, was sitting by his ankle... realised she had not shifted throughout the entire rehearsal and performance.

:i:

"Queen to D-five," said Elizabeth primly, paws folded in front of her as she surveyed the chessboard. Obligingly, Kurt moved the white queen to the appropriate square. He took a sip from the glass of orange juice by his elbow, rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand.

"Why don't you just shift into a monkey. Or some other animal with opposable thumbs? That way you can move the pieces yourself, instead of ordering me to do it." Setting down the glass, Kurt moved one of his pawns forward.

Elizabeth fixed him with a dignified sort of look that she had perfected over a lifetime of wearing different breeds of cats.

"I can't see myself as a monkey. Ever. _Biship, C-two. Check._ Imagine your subconscious picking fleas out of your hair and-"

Kurt held up a hand.

"Stop right there – for one thing, I don't have fleas. For another, you have a point."

He moved his knight, taking Elizabeth's rook with a practice movement. The wooden pieces clicked gently as he set them down by the edge of the board; brown and white like chocolate squares. They reminded him of afternoons in the living room, when the tables came up to his shoulders and his mother would put him on the stool while they crouched over a chess board, taking in the warmth of fresh baked cookies (one cookie for every piece taken; it had not instilled the best game strategies in Kurt to begin with). Kurt's mother taught him to play chess as soon as she was sure he wasn't going to eat the pieces. It was one of the most vivid things he remembered about her; hair tucked flaxen golden behind her ear. He remembered watching her face, studying her expressions intently for a hint of what move to do next. He remembered the quirk of her lips every time he said "check!" and the way her hair smelled when it came loose from too much laughter. Kurt traced the edge of the wooden board, fingers worrying at the chipped corner (six years old, Christmas, incident with the new kitchen tiles).

Elizabeth didn't even look up properly, intent on her grooming.

"Knight...no, that one. Yes, Knight to E-five, _check_. Slacking, Kurt, you're slacking."

"Shut up," said Kurt, rubbing his temples and attempting to concentrate, "I'm tired."

After a long moment's deliberation, Kurt moved his king diagonally along the board, letting a rest on the white square beside it. Then he said:

"Oh dammit."

Elizabeth didn't even hesitate. As soon as Kurt's fingers left the crown of his chess piece, she crowed;

"Queen-"

Kurt moved it to E-four. Elizabeth reached over the board and knocked over Kurt's King with her paw. The piece toppled, invariably knocking over half the chess pieces all in one go. Kurt dropped his face into his hands with a groan.

"Check mate," said Elizabeth, whiskers twitching smugly, "_Check mate_, put it on the card, put it on the caaaaard."

Kurt pulled out the score card and reluctantly gave Elizabeth another line. So far, it stood at _Elizabeth – 976, Kurt – 823. _

"I maintain that the only reason you win is because you're my subconscious. You can read my mine but I can't read yours."

Elizabeth leapt gracefully off the table and onto the floor, shifting seamlessly into a little black cat.

"What utter tosh."

Kurt began placing all the pieces back on the opposite ends of the chessboard, lining them up in pairs. There was something soothing about the process, the complete balance of a game not begun. The blank stretch of checkered cubes was a wide expanse of blissful minutes he could spend inside his own head.

"Technically, you _are _me. It is also poetic that that I am the only person who can best myself."

Elizabeth padded over to Kurt's bed, jumping up and quickly settling herself onto his pillow with a contented purr. Kurt unplugged his laptop from his desk and joined her on the bed, flipped the lid open and setting it down on the beside table. Selecting a well-used icon from his bookmarks, he logged into the website and set his status to green.

Beside him, Elizabeth yawned lazily and stretched, tail curling gently around Kurt's left wrist.

"I thought you were tired," she said, turning around so she could peer at the screen. Kurt gathered the pillows up so he could lie comfortably while still being close enough to navigate the laptop keys. On the screen, a little pop up window signalled that_ jlansky88_ wanted to start a game. Kurt gave _jlansky88_'s stats a once over, then double-clicked_ yes_.

"Not too tired for this. Will be a slaughter."

Eventually Kurt fell asleep on his bed, a brief lull in waiting for his opponent causing him to finally doze off. Elizabeth was tucked beneath his arm, and she opened one eye to survey Kurt's laptop before giving a disinterested feline huff and going determinedly back to sleep.

It had been half an hour, fifteen games and fourteen wins. _Orbit2seconds_ sent a couple of annoyed messages before the game forfeited in his favour.

:i:

To be absolutely honest, Kurt fell in love all the time. It was easy. He fell in love with the latest Alexander McQueen silk scarves. He fell in love with the way his dad said, "I'm so proud of you." He loved the way grapefruit would stain his fingers, scent lingering for hours; he loved stepping through unspoilt snow, leaving clear footprints behind while Elizabeth padded out a matching pair of prints alongside his. He loved being able to sing.

He was not so good at falling out of love.

Looking back, perhaps Kurt hadn't fallen in _love _with Finn Hudson. He'd fallen in love with the _idea _of falling in love with Finn Hudson. It was all enough to make his head hurt. But that didn't stop him introducing Burt to Finn's mother, didn't stop him from trying so hard to fit into a mould he had sketched out, a mould that would make him into someone Finn could like. Of course, Kurt didn't count on his father _actually _loving Carol, didn't count on his Father liking Finn so much and wasn't that just the biggest joke of all?

Elizabeth was tucked next to his chin, perching close to his collar. Her feathers were warm against his cheek, and Kurt blinked hard to stop tears from falling.

"Let's just go home," she said, quietly, "Come on Kurt."

The light from the television flickered across the window, and despite the half closed curtains, Kurt could hear the murmur of conversation. His dad's voice was a low rumble, familiar and comfortable. Only Kurt couldn't make out what he was saying because he was standing outside while Finn and his father laughed at something on the screen.

"I just…"

"I know," said Elizabeth, soothingly, "I know. Let's go home."

The sound of muffled cheering. Kurt swallowed hard, turning away from the window.

"'Kay."

:i:

Then Mercedes quit the Cheerios and Kurt _didn't. _Despite Glee and a mutual appreciation of exuberant and fabulous hats, it was like a sudden rift had opened up between them, one which Kurt was unsure how to cross. Sometimes, when he was swept up in the red-and-white uniforms, the un-slushied mornings and lunch spent in the security of his teammates…Kurt wasn't sure if he wanted to go back to the way things were. It wasn't being selfish, was it?

Brittany waved a hand in front of his face, and Kurt blinked.

"I said, can I steal the rest of your fries?" she repeated.

Kurt looked down at his half-finished plate in confusion.

"I don't have any fries," he said, "Brit, these are celery sticks. Baby celery."

Brittany shrugged.

"I pretend they're fries and then they taste like cookies," she said, "So can I have them?"

Elizabeth gave Brittany's daemon a long, disturbed stare. Kurt sighed and nodded, pushing the plate towards her.

"Help yourself. Not exactly hungry anyway."

Across the table, Santana smirked.

"I was waiting to see how long you'd begin to say that," she said, "It's like, the second sign you're a real part of the team,"

"And what's the first sign?" asked Kurt, dryly.

Santana took a swig from the tall red bottle next to her elbow while Brittany fed Kurt's celery sticks to her daemon.

"Not being slushied. Or one of these," she shook her drink bottle at Kurt, who grimaced. Each and every cheerleader at the table had a similar red-bottle within reaching distance. Kurt owned one as well, but his was filled with water and honey (to disguise the colour in case of a random Coach Sylvester check) rather than the toxic cocktail that everyone else drank daily.

"Coach Sylvester will castrate any jock who gets food colouring on a Cheerio's uniform," Santana continued. She set down her drink, running a finger down the length of her daemon absently. The vivid green snake darted out a forked tongue, blinking once before settling back into his customary stillness. He looked like a particularly exotic piece of jewelry – until you saw his fangs.

"I have fangs. I could have fangs," said Elizabeth, out of the blue.

"I was slushied just yesterday," said Kurt, raising his eyebrow, "Clearly your theory has a flaw."

Santana rolled her eyes.

"You were in your Lady Gaga costume. That's different."

"Red is a sign of power," offered Brittany, "That's why the Nazis wore it."

The table was momentarily distracted by Brittany's Nazi comment. Andrew, who was a senior and one the Cheerio's few male members, made a choking noise and dived for a napkin.

"Are you comparing Coach to Hitler, Brit?" he asked, when he was no longer dying on this mouthful of Sue Sylvester's Master Cleanse.

Kurt stifled a giggle.

"Well," he said, "They both shout into megaphones and need makeovers. Don't tell Coach I said that,"

Santana slapped her hand down onto the table, letting out a burst of laughter.

"Isn't her parents Nazi hunters or something? I think she mentioned it once while were practicing out basket toss. Though I don't know if half the stuff she says in practice is true."

Brittany tilted her head, half eaten celery between thumb and forefinger. Her daemon tilted his head to match, ears flopping over to one side.

"Who's Hitler?"

"Oh my god," said Elizabeth, burrowing her face into the crook of Kurt's elbow, "How is she even_ real_."

:i:

The next day, Kurt had to admit that Santana had a point about the Cheerio uniforms. He didn't have the power to part crowds like Santana and Quinn did. But the red and white was like a badge; people didn't avoid eye contact like it was contagious. Football players no longer threw him into the dumpsters and people seemed to see _him _instead of casting looks at Elizabeth, like they usually did.

It all came down to clothing (as usual). It wasn't as if Kurt kept a tally of the number of times he had been slushied. If he knew which corridors to avoid at which times and which days (Monday and Wednesdays) had the highest possibility of a slushie facial…well, it was only experience and survival instincts. But take all that away? One was bound to notice. Kurt would be lying if he wasn't enjoying it – even though he missed being able to dress to the nines. Sort of. Did he?

Of course, he was in his Lady Gaga costume again today, not his Cheerio's uniform. And on hindsight, Kurt should have known not to combine Wednesday and an enormous white wig.

He wondered if Karofsky and Azimio had nothing to do all day except waylay him by his locker.

"So now you got to dress like a freak too?" said Azimio, fist in hand. It would be threatening if they hadn't been doing this since Kurt first arrived, wearing his teal-green Chanel blazer. Now, it only made Kurt worry vaguely about his Glee costume and wondering if the two idiots would stoop low enough to hit a girl. Subtly, he shifted so he was standing in front of Tina instead, crossing his arms.

"We are expressing ourselves," he said, going for haughty, "The same thing you do when you come to school in those red jackets!"

He knew this speech off by heart; it was what he told himself every day when he picked out a new set of clothes to wear to school. It was his inner mantra when cold, sticky slushie dripped down his collar, the repetition of _I'm better, I'm better, I'm better _drumming its way through his head like music turned up too loud. He never had any trouble believing himself before.

"Is that right?" sneered Karofsky, taking a step closer. Elizabeth hissed viciously, ears flat on her head. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt could see Karofsky's bulldog staring at Elizabeth intently. It made no threatening moves, but Elizabeth crouched low on her haunches, ready to sink claws into legs.

"The next time you feel like expressing yourselves, don't mind me if my fist expresses itself on your face!" Azimio slammed said fist into the locker by Kurt's head, the metallic crash making him flinch despite his resolve not to. Tina's eyes were huge in her head.

By the time they left, laughing, Kurt almost wished he had had Cheerios practice that day instead of Glee.

:i:

In the end, it was funny how things worked out.

When his father turned up a school, looking for Finn, looking for Finn because they were going to watch a game _without Kurt – _Kurt felt like he had been doused in ice. Elizabeth had sidled up to Rose, meowing, but that didn't stop them from leaving in a flurry of "I'll be home late"s and "see you later"s. It was funny because it made things so obvious and that was never Kurt's intention. It wasn't his intention to highlight every difference between himself and Finn, this whole thing was never meant to provide his father with a son who liked the things he liked, enjoyed watching sports and _the deadliest catch _on Friday nights. It wasn't supposed to give his dad a son who was straight and dated girls and was endearingly polite to almost everyone. It wasn't supposed to make his dad love Finn.

Kurt tore down another strip of colour samples, Elizabeth silent and forlorn at his heels.

It was funny how, instead of things working out the way he wanted them to, it was Finn who was getting a father. Finn, who didn't need to dress up in flannel to fit in. Finn, who didn't have to_ change_. It was so unfair. It was so _fucking unfair. _Kurt crumpled all sample strips and tossed them into the waste paper basket.

It was funny how, dressed in flannel and holding Brittany's hand, his father was still looking for Finn. It was funny because until now, Kurt had never appreciated just how much his dad obviously wanted something different.

But nothing was funnier when Finn destroyed all of Kurt's constructed ideas about_ love_ and _perfect _all in one go:

"It's just a room, Finn!" Kurt shouted, the expression on Finn's face hurting more than he wanted to admit. "We can redecorate it if you want to!"

Elizabeth tried to get closer to Finn's daemon, but the Labrador snarled with uncharacteristic ferocity; defensive. Elizabeth jumped back, ears flat against her head. Finn looked angry – he had no right to be so angry, didn't he know how long Kurt spent going over the materials?- faced screwed up and hands clenched in fists. He picked up one of the lamps beside the bed, shaking it.

"Well first of all you need to get rid of this faggy lamp," he shouted, voice rising in volume to match Kurt's. He slammed the lamp back down onto the table, making Kurt flinch. The lamp upset the chessboard beside it, causing the pieces to scatter all over the floor. Elizabeth hissed, but Finn seemed to take no notice, grabbing the nearest thing- "and this _faggy _blanket and this_ faggy_-!"

"_Hey!_ What did you just call him?"

Both Kurt and Finn spun around, startled.

It was Burt, looking livid, one hand braced on the banister. Then he proceeded to berate Finn; voice low and full of something Kurt had only heard once before – when his dad had received that anonymous phone-call back in the garage. Something ached in his chest; painful and throbbing.

"I thought you were different, Finn," said Burt.

_I thought so too._

Kurt gathered Elizabeth in his arms, buried his face in her fur, so he wouldn't have to look at Finn or his father. Elizabeth squirmed, but Kurt didn't loosen his arms. His dad's hand, clapping him heavily on his shoulder.

"Room looks great."

Footsteps.

His tears felt hot on his cheeks and he waited until both Finn and his dad had gone upstairs before letting Elizabeth down and sobbing into his hands.

:i:

Six-twenty in the morning. Up here, the sun was already a searing glow across the horizon, long since tinted blue and no longer gold. Blaine watched patch of sky outside his window dip, white to blue then back again as the plane descended steadily through the clouds. If he leaned his head against the glass, he could see the patch-work pattern that was the city draw nearer and nearer, buildings and roads coming into focus like a slowly adjusting camera lens. They would be landing soon.

He drained the rest of the orange juice in his plastic cup in one swallow, tucking the cup in the holder next to his arm rest. His left hand rested on the shoulder of the silver-tailed genet, currently curled up in his lap, head tucked between paws. Blaine stroked the dappled fur until his daemon opened his eyes.

"Already?" murmured Audrey, yawning. He licked absently at Blaine's empty cup, stretching languidly from his front paws to the tip of his long, striped tail. Blaine ran his fingers through Audrey's soft fur as his daemon pressed his nose to the small airplane window.

"I think we're landing in five minutes," said Blaine. He turned in his seat and held up five fingers in question. David, who was in the row behind, gave him the thumbs up.

"Why are we speaking in sign language anyway?" asked Audrey, climbing Blaine's blazer so he could sit at a higher vantage point, allowing him to people-watch.

"Don't want to wake Anna," said Blaine, jerking a thumb towards the girl who had her head pillowed on David's shoulder.

Audrey balanced himself on the edge of Blaine's shoulder. The weight of him was familiar, and Blaine reached up to run a hand down Audrey's back, feeling the four points of pressure through his blazer that were Audrey's paws. Audrey flicked his tail into Blaine's face, making him splutter.

"Should we wake him up?" asked Audrey, nodding at Wes who was fast asleep in his reclined seat. His hands were folded over his stomach while his daemon, a golden-brown hawk, was perched on the armrest of the seat, head tucked beneath her wing. Blaine glanced at his watch.

"Yeah maybe," he conceded, before leaning over and shaking Wes by the shoulder.

After a moment, he shook harder.

"Wes. _Wes."_

There came a sigh. Then David shoved his arm through the space between Blaine and Wes's seats and poked his friend sharply in the cheek with his index finger. Wes jerked upright.

"What-"

"And there you go," said David, laughing as Wes glared at him, running a hand through his hair.

"The pills knock him out, so you just have to jab him," David advised.

"That's the_ point_ of them, they're _supposed_ to knock me out," Wes muttered darkly, running a hand over his face, then added "I_ hate_ planes". His daemon, now also awake, plucked a stray bit of fluff from Wes's sleeve.

"Well," said Blaine, "You'll be glad to know we're soon to be back on the ground."

"I hate planes," Wes repeated, "I'm such a good boyfriend."

He turned to look at the girl sitting across the aisle.

"Soph, look at the torture I put myself through for you," said Wes.

The girl in question flicked her pony-tail behind her shoulder, then blew Wes a kiss across the aisle. Her friend giggled into the open magazine in her hands and Wes looked slightly mollified.

:i:

"I can't believe you guys do this every year," said Blaine, knocking and entering Wes and David's shared hotel room. Audrey was curled comfortably around his shoulder, ears flicking and eyes alert. They were here for half an hour to check in, drop off all their luggage, before heading off to the stadium with the rest of the team. Blaine's own suitcase was already unpacked. He had been allocated to share with one of the girls, the reasoning being that since he was gay, it was perfectly acceptable. Blaine didn't even try to argue.

"Only since I started going out with Sophie," said Wes, changing out of his jeans into his Dalton uniform, his blazer still in its protective bag, "Father wanted to seem supportive I guess."

"So he bankrolled the entire cheer team to go to nationals, flying first class," said David, grinning.

Wes unzipped the bag and pulled out his blazer, shrugging it on. Then he wrapped a leather cuff back around his left wrist, and his daemon leapt from where it had been perching on the bed-post to perch on Wes's arm.

"His office doesn't exactly lack funding," said Wes, dismissively. He met Blaine's gaze for a brief moment, before looking away. David was oblivious.

"Ever since Anna made the team, it's pretty much mandatory that I come along to offer my loyal support". His daemon, a handsome, lanky hunting dog, was examining one of the half open drawers.

"Uh-uh," said Blaine, "and I'm here because..."

"Hey," said Wes, kicking off his converse shoes and stuffing his feet into leather loafers, "I promise you'll enjoy it. Last year's nationals were pretty amazing to watch, even though Sophie was in a terrible mood for weeks afterwards."

"Oh god, don't remind me," said David, flopping backwards to sprawl over his duvet, "I really hope we win this year or else the trip back home is going to be _painful._"

"It was the first time I saw Sophie cry," Wes agreed, "Scary stuff."

"Maybe it's a good thing I'm here as a neutral spectator," said Blaine, leaning back against one of the chairs.

"And not all cheerleaders are girls, you know," said David, waggling his eyebrows.

Blaine rolled his eyes. Audrey kneaded Blaine's shoulder anxiously, and Blaine reached up to stroke a comforting finger down his daemon's back.

"We're not going to be match made are we? I don't think that would turn out well."

Before he could reply, the door to the room burst open once more and Sophie swept in, long hair pulled back into an elegant knot. She was wearing her cheer-leading uniform, a dark navy blue affair with gold and black lines; school colours for Southwell, Dalton's sister school. She held out a phone. Her cat daemon watched them all with big yellow eyes.

"Kate says the cars are here," said Sophie, "You gentlemen ready?"

"'Course," said Wes, giving his girlfriend a mock half-bow. She didn't even roll her eyes.

"Should I go get the others?" offered Blaine, gesturing at the door.

Sophie shook her head.

"I've told the girls to get their respective male counterparts. They'll meet us in the lobby."

:i:

They spent the next two days making trips between the hotel and the nearest high-school, the combined powers of the Coach, Sophie (and no doubt Wes' wallet) ensuring that the entire gymnasium had been booked for their use. Blaine, along with the other Dalton supporters, spent the day on the stands. They had a roster to guard the entrance and patrol the perimeter – in the case of spies, according to Sophie.

The entire routine looked a bit mechanical by the time Blaine had to sit through it for the sixth time.

"Aren't they getting tired?" asked Audrey. He nudged Blaine's hand until Blaine resumed his patting. "I think they should all take a break for today. Anna looks like she's going to fall off the triangle."

"The competition is tomorrow," said Blaine, leaning back on his uncomfortable seat, "It's probably-" the music came to an abrupt silence, "oh, here they go again."

"_No!" _Sophie was screaming, voice a little screechy after their two hour long rehearsal. Her pony-tail was escaping its slick perfection, swinging as she shouted. Further down the stands, Blaine saw Wes wince a little, "_You!_ _You're out, you're out by a mile!"_

Audrey burrowed his head into Blaine's sweater.

It wasn't that Blaine wasn't familiar with cheerleading – being on the football team at his old school meant that the cheerleaders were at the sidelines almost every match. But he had a niggling suspicion that the cheerleading he had seen was going to be nothing like the cheerleading happening at nationals. He _had_ seen Sophia and her team perform before, once or twice, when Dalton and Southwell had their bi-annual exchanges. He could appreciate cheer-leading in an athletic-cross-performers sort of way – though the whole appreciation of short skirts was something he couldn't wrap his head around.

"Wow," said Audrey, when they stepped out of the car, "Everyone looks like they came out of the same mould."

And Blaine had to agree – the whole front entrance to the stadium was packed with various uniforms – all similar besides their differing colours and designs. Blaine, Wes and David were sticking out like a sore thumb in their Dalton blazers amidst a sea of cheerleading uniforms and their entourage.

"Remind me why we are wearing our blazers," Blaine hissed at David as a pair of girls walked by, giggling and looking back over their shoulders at Blaine. Audrey hid his face beneath his paws, tail swishing across the back of Blaine's jacket like a pendulum.

"They're staring, they're staring," said Audrey, "I wish they'd stop _staring_..."

"We're ambassadors for the school," said David with a fake English accent. Then he said, in his normal voice, "School policy or something, we're technically representing Dalton."

"Dalton doesn't have a cheerleading team!" protested Blaine.

David slapped Blaine hard on the back. Blaine could feel Audrey tightening his hold on his opposite shoulder.

"Come on, it's- Hey baby."

Anna made a beeline for David and they exchanged a passionate kiss while the former looped a lanyard over David's neck. Attached to it was a laminated card. She handed one to Blaine was well.

"Here," she said, "Sophie finally got ours. The reception is a bit hectic here, but I think someone recognised Wes and let us through pretty quickly."

David laughed, sliding an arm around his girlfriend's waist and pulling her close.

"Yeah, I was waiting for that to happen. Was he pissed?"

"Nah, Sophie was pleased. You should have seen McKinley's _faces _when we jumped line. So worth it."

"McKinley?" asked Blaine, curious as they made their way through the main entrance.

Anna sniffed.

"From Lima," offered David, "I only know because they, ah, won Nationals last year."

"And the year before that," said Anna, looking thoroughly put out.

"And the year before that," agreed David.

"And the year before _that,_" she spat.

"I'm sure you'll beat them this year," said David, good naturedly, "I mean-"

"There's no beating anyone_." _Sophie appeared out of nowhere, pulling a slightly ruffled Wes behind her. "We're not even in the same category _which you should know,_" She gave David an irritated glare "But if they win the national title and we don't, I am going to personally _kill someone_."

David made an exaggerated, apologetic expression and shrugged. She clapped her hands, and Blaine was convinced that if _she _had a gavel on hand, she would no doubt use it. All the girls wearing navy blue and gold stopped what they were doing and in moments, the entire team were filing through the stadium. Blaine caught David saying, "I thought you said she was in a good mood!" before the crowd of people separated them.

"Quick, or we'll get lost," said Audrey, standing tall on Blaine's shoulder. He nipped Blaine sharply on the ear when several girls cut across them, uniforms unfamiliar. "_Come on_, Blaine! Now is not the time to be a gentleman. I don't' want to get lost here, use your elbows. _Use your elbows!_"

"We're not going to get lost," said Blaine, eyes darting to follow the Dalton blazers and the Southwell navy and gold. He could see David's tall shoulders bobbing through the crowd, safely ensconced in the middle of the team. Blaine was so focused on not losing sight of _that Dalton blazer _he didn't see the girl until they collided.

"Well, _excuse me,_" someone snapped and Blaine stumbled backwards as the girl pinned him with a hard glare. She, like most of the girls here, had her dark hair pulled into a sleek, high pony tail. Her uniform was white and red, "WMHS" emblazoned in bold text over her chest. Blaine held up his palm in an apologetic gesture.

"Sorry about-"

"You might want to watch where you're going," she said contemptuously, tossing her hair back. Then she seemed to take in Blaine's uniform, her eyes sweeping him up and down. Her daemon, a vivid green snake, made a swaying movement towards Audrey. Audrey flattened his ears and shifted so far back on Blaine's shoulder he was in danger of falling off. But then she was swept away by her team and into the crowd.

"Oh jeez, she was lovely," said Audrey, ears still flattened in irritation, "Her daemon was giving me bad vibes. Never trust anyone with a snake as their daemon. Sneaky, nasty and- Blaine! Where's everyone gone?"

Blaine rubbed a hand over his face as he was jostled in the crowd. There was no sign of Wes or David, and he couldn't see any of the Southwell cheerleaders anywhere either.

"I think if we can just make it into the – _Audrey_, you'll ruin the gel!"

Audrey had clambered on top of Blaine's carefully styled hair, tail swaying as he attempted to see over the heads of everyone around them.

"I told you we'd get lost," he said, irritably, "I told you to use your el- _There they are_! Walk faster Blaine!"

:i:

By the time Blaine made his way down the aisle and past an entire row of people to where the Dalton boys were seated, the lights in the stadium was already dimming for the first performance. Audrey's long tail was curled around his neck like a scarf and he was blinking curiously in the direction of the brightly lit stage.

"I was just about to go looking for you," said David, grinning as Blaine collapsed into his seat, "Where did you go?"

"Got separated by the crowd," said Blaine, "There's like a thousand people here!"

"More like four thousand," said Wes, leaning forwards and passing Blaine a folded programme. His daemon was perched regally on his shoulder, and she shuffled her wings at the movement, glaring at Audrey. Audrey scampered down Blaine's blazer and settled more comfortably in his lap instead. He nudged Blaine's hand until Blaine took the hint and started scratching him behind the ears. With his free hand, he loosened his school tie.

"Anyway, I'm glad you didn't get lost," said David, "It would have been impossible to find you."

"Pretty much," Blaine agreed.

"I suspect we could just get one of Wes's dogs to find you though. Right Wes?"

Wes rolled his eyes. He had his chin propped on one fist, and Blaine thought he looked a little bored.

"I told my father not to arrange anything."

David raised both eyebrows, tilting his head discreetly to the left.

"Yeah, because those guys fit _right in._"

Blaine chanced a glance over his shoulder and sure enough, there were a couple of suited gentlemen two rows behind their own. They were wearing subtle grey jackets, sleeves rolled up – but all in all they seemed a little out of place. Blaine adverted his eyes and surveyed the sea of people around them instead. Many were grouped together in various coloured cheerleading uniforms, parents and other spectators sprinkled throughout. Some of the teams would be sitting with the audience until it was time for them to go backstage and prepare. Most of the teams in the stands were girls, since the co-ed categories would be competing first. Blaine flipped the pages of the programme with his free hand.

"Is Wes really likely to be kidnapped at a cheerleading competition?" Audrey wondered out loud. Blaine shrugged.

Wes didn't even bother being subtle – he turned around in his seat and glared.

"Great," he said eventually, turning around and looking pissed, "So classy."

"No one will be sabotaging us at least," said Sophie, "Remember that time when the Texas squad had to pull out when their head cheerleader broke her leg coming in? Totally intentional."

Out of the huge speakers, music began to boom and suddenly, there was a squad entering the stage from the wings. The first row of girls each summersaulted neatly into formation and the crowd burst into applause, including all the Southwell girls. The look on Sophie's face, however, was less than impressed.

Blaine settled into his seat and Audrey climbed up his arm and back onto his shoulder for a better view.

Each squad had a routine of a cheer, a chant and a dance. As the second team for the day exited off stage, Blaine caught Sophie saying to Anna, "They only had three fulls. How did they even get into Nationals with three fulls?" and it was only moments before the next squad came on stage and their soundtrack was blasted from the speakers. The sixth squad from Washington on the same music as the one after and there was unabashed murmuring from the crowd. Further down the row, two Southwell girls high-fived in triumph.

"Ouch," commented David, "I bet someone is having a heart attack over that."

"Is it really that bad?" asked Blaine, having to raise his voice a little to be heard over the pounding bass, "Repeat of music? I mean, it's not like show choir. The routines are different right?"

"Yeah, but it still puts you on the back foot," said David. "Oh look how low that toss was!"

On stage, three girls were tossed into the air simultaneously, the spinning movement making Audrey wobble on Blaine's shoulder as he tracked them with his eyes.

"What's wrong with that toss?" asked Blaine, but David was too engrossed in the performance to answer. Sophie, her blond hair gleaming from the light reflecting off the stage, had an altogether too pleased expression on her face which told Blaine that there was plenty wrong with the toss. The expression promptly disappeared as the next squad took centre stage and the music began to play-

"Fuck!" spat Sophie, eyes wide, "FUCK."

"Whoa," said Blaine who had never heard Wes' girlfriend swear before. He sat up a little straighter in his seat, squinting at the stage. He could make out a familiar white and red uniform; the girls standing in a triangular formation while a guy stood at the point. There was another row of male cheerleaders behind the girls. All in all, it didn't look all that different to the other performances. "What's-"

"That's McKinley," said David, grimacing. His daemon made a sympathetic sort of whine in Anna's direction.

Blaine waved his hand, "Aaaaand…"

Then a voice came through the speaker system, a high, clear voice and Blaine realised that the guy standing at the front of the squad was _singing. _

"Is that Celine Dion?" asked Wes, incredulous. Beside him, Sophie looked like she was going to strangle someone with her bare hands.

"They have live music. They're_- fuck_!"

Blaine heard Wes say, "Is that Celine Dion in _French?_" while David laughed at the expression of the team in the row in front until Anna slapped him upside the head. Sophie was talking furiously with the Southwell coach, looking furious.

Blaine was a little preoccupied with the boy who was _still singing in French. _One of the cameras had zoomed in on his face so that it was projected on one of the screens that towered over the stage itself. He was singing into the microphone by his mouth, hair coiffed, eyes grey-green and _he was singing. _Blaine felt something akin to a _maelstrom _of butterflies explode in his stomach.

"Counter-tenor," said David, elbowing Blaine hard in the ribs, "Imagine if he was in the Warblers!"

"You traitor!" snapped Anna, shooting David a dirty look.

In the seat over, Wes was trying to calm down his girlfriend while McKinley executed some pretty dangerous-looking stunts that had the audience applauding and exclaiming in turns.

"Soph, the singer is a guy. He's not even singing in your category, calm down!"

"Vocals! Vocals! Why didn't we- who the hell is that guy? He was not on the squad last year!"

Blaine was so entranced by the singing he hadn't even noticed that Audrey was sitting on top of his head until Audrey said, sounding a little dazed;

"I love his voice, Blaine…"

The camera had cut away from the singer to a wide-shot of the rest of the team, but the singing continued-

"…_Dames et cavaliers, avancez_…"

He had moved from the front of the stage to the back, doing the routines with the rest of the team without a single break in his singing. _He must have amazing stamina_, thought Blaine, _and fit_. Then Audrey's front paws dipped over his forehead and there was a moment of confused scrambling in which Blaine's hair was irrevocably destroyed from its carefully gelled state.

"I can't see from here!" protested Audrey, sinking little claws vindictively into Blaine's dress pants. Blaine winced but ignored his daemon, trying to block out everthing apart from _that voice._ Sophie was inconsolable.

"They're going to take nationals again- _don't tell me to _calm down_, Wesley! _I want to know who he is. Where's the programme? Get me a name! _Argh_!"

"I wouldn't mind knowing his name either," admitted Blaine. David gave him knowing smile and they bumped fists over the arm-rest. Then David was back to maintaining a funeral expression for his girlfriend. Anna was staring at the stage, pouting. A glance down the row of seats told Blaine that now would not be a good time to show too much enthusiasm. It didn't stop him from applauding until his hands were red – though it did stop him from giving a standing ovation.

When the squad finished their dance number and exited via the stage wings, Audrey made a disappointed noise and stared forlornly after them.

:i:

All in all, there was a lot of screaming involved.

At one point, Jared (one of the cheerios; broad shouldered, could lift Santana with his pinky finger) hoisted Kurt onto his shoulder with a wild _whoop _and Santana was literally screaming with joy, her hair slowly escaping the glossy ponytail. Brittany was standing by the humongous trophy with the rest of the team, who alternated between jumping up and down and smiling at everyone around them. Cameras flashed, and the noise of the crowd was deafening.

"We won. Again. _Suck on that!" _Santana was saying.

Kurt was smiling so hard his face ached but he couldn't stop – he felt breathless and overwhelmed, a floating sensation lodged somewhere in his chest making him feel taller and lighter than he had ever felt before. Elizabeth was a nightingale – she had been for the duration of the performance – and she hopped on his shoulder, too excited to stay still. Eventually, Kurt was returned to the ground. His knees felt a bit wobbly, to be honest.

"Oh my god! Kurt! We took out nationals!"

"I know. _I know!"_

Out of no where, Brittany came barrelling through the crowd, latching onto Kurt with an excited _"KURT!"_ Kurt laughed and spun Brittany around, her momentum making them both dizzy in seconds. She held both his hands and jumped up and down, face lit up like it was Christmas.

"We won! We won! Have you held the trophy yet?"

"No," laughed Kurt, "But I'm fine for now!"

"Coach says you totally gave us the edge with the panel," said Santana, appearing suddenly at Kurt's elbow. She looked like the cat who got the cream, a smug smirk at the edge of her lips. She linked hands with Brittany and swung it back and forth. She jerked her head at a passing pair of girls, dressed in blue and gold. "They didn't even know what _hit_ them."

"You were awesome," agreed Brittany and Kurt felt Elizabeth puff out her chest at the praise, feather aplomph with pride.

Then the rest of the girls detached themselves from the trophy and came over for impromptu group hug-and-scream session, Jessica grabbing Kurt by the shoulders and kissing him soundly on both cheeks. Brittany decided she needed to follow suit and soon Kurt's ribs were hurting from too much laughter and there were smears of lip-gloss on his face.

"Oh look, we're on the screen again!" said Elizabeth, wings fluttering. Kurt glanced up and noticed that yes, they were indeed several cameras pointed in their direction.

"Oh Jesus, not again – those pixels make my skin look terrible," he said, making a beeline for the drinks table and hopefully out of the camera's frame.

He didn't even make it to half way before an arm grabbed him around the neck and he was pulled up against Sue Sylvester. Kurt choked a little, squirming until Sue loosened the arm around his neck. Elizabeth was dislodged from his shoulder with a chirp of protest and a flurry of feathers.

"…here do a fourteen and a half minute Celine Dion medley, entirely in French."

"Well you know what, I'm all about finding that freakishly depressed kid and show him what winning is all about!"

Kurt smiled awkwardly at the cameraman.

"Viva la difference!" he offered, adding a kick to illustrate his enthusiasm. At his ankle, Elizabeth snorted in a way that was distinctly un-bird like. Alright, so Kurt may still be a little high. Sue let go of his neck and Kurt seized his opportunity to escape back into the safety of the Cheerios, who were doing some sort of impromptu chant-number around the trophy, pom-poms and glitter and all. Brittany spotted him at once and danced over, thrusting a pom-pom into his face and giggling like a maniac.

Elizabeth was once again forced off his shoulder, wings akimbo.

"Honestly!" she said, flying around his shoulder before shifting into a Siamese cat and dropping gracefully to the ground. Kurt only laughed and scooped her up, kissing her between the ears and ignoring her half-hearted hiss of protest.

Across the room, Wes paused. The hawk on his shoulder blinked once, eyes fixed on the cat in Kurt's arms.

**:i:**

_**(Author's Notes)**_**: **_Lookies, it's Blaine & Co.! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, even though I'm really not happy in terms of characterisation etc. Any input/crit/feedback would be received with hugs. :D If you're confused about anything, check out the Explanatory Notes which will be updated as each chapter unfolds. _

_And yes, Blaine's daemon is male._


	4. Chapter Three

OF A SOUL

:i:

"_And the great difference is that innocence can't be wise, but wisdom can't be innocent."_

Pullman

:i:

**CHAPTER THREE**

:i:

The summer stretched long. Afternoons were spent walking through the pages of glossy magazines, lounging with the music playing and chess pieces between his fingers. But like malt candy, golden and liquid on warm afternoons, the days thinned until all that was left was a dab of sugar and stickiness on the pad of one's thumb. New Directions had not won regionals. Burt had not decided to take a vacation. Lima had not changed (except for the colour of the grass and the smell of rain in the morning).

Elizabeth had not settled.

But the thing that was irritating Kurt most right now was Jacob Israel's stupid afro bobbing at his shoulder, brandishing a tacky microphone. His daemon, a scruffy looking raven with two beady eyes, cawed and flapped about their heads while Elizabeth bared her feline teeth.

"When will you glee clubbers accept that people hate you-"

"No comment."

"- because you are nothing more than a glorified karaoke club-"

"Go away. Go away." said Kurt, lengthening his stride. The raven swooped down low, but then swerved back up towards the ceiling when Elizabeth lashed out with one paw. Kurt smiled. It was a good thing he was wearing a jacket that made him look utterly badass when he powerwalked. Not every jacket had a cut this fine. Jacob, however, was not deterred.

"- designed to squander people out of millions of dollars?"

Bathroom! Kurt shoved open the door. Unfortunately in his haste, it was the Men's bathroom and Jacob simply followed him right in, shoving the microphone in Kurt's face.

"Oh for god's sake-!"

Elizabeth had evidently had enough. She shifted dramatically into a sabre tooth tiger, teeth glinting. Kurt was sure that sabre tooth tigers were not supposed to be as big as a small pony. She snarled, showing Jacob every one of her teeth and he leapt back. To Kurt's disappointment, he didn't drop the microphone, instead changing tack:

"So I see your daemon has once again failed to settle," said Jacob, voice wobbling only slightly when Elizabeth growled. The kid with the camera standing behind Jacob's shoulder took a step back, looking ready to run. Jacob ploughed on.

"Did you know that there is a betting poll on my blog? 34% of the school say never."

Kurt blinked, trying to school his expression into something condescending, something blank. But there was a unpleasant, burning sensation just below his heart. It made him hesitate and Jacob seemed to take encouragement from the silence.

"How do you feel about the consequences of your chosen lifestyle?" asked Jacob, eyebrows waggling obscenely and that was when Kurt snapped.

Elizabeth leapt forwards with an almighty roar, making Jacob squeal and leap backwards into a line of lockers. A girl behind him tripped over the mic and the kid dropped his camera with fright. It hit the floor with a resounding _crack. _

"You know what?" said Kurt, pulling himself up to his full height so he could stare down at Jacob, "It doesn't take much courage for people to post anonymous comments online, does it? Tell your readers: Next time, _say it to my face_."

With all the viciousness given to an extinct ice-age predator, Elizabeth tore the camera into pieces. The crack and shattering of plastic and glass was loud in the corridor, punctuated by Jacob whimpering. A few moments passed.

"Are you quite done?" Kurt asked. The tiger paused – there was something shiny between her teeth. Then she spat it out, and swept the debris aside with her tail. Kurt straightened his cuffs, stepped over what remained of Jacob's camera and continued to his English class, Elizabeth by his side. He passed Azimio and Karofsky, who were each holding a tall cup of red slushie. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw them glance hesitantly at Elizabeth, then at the cowering Jacob by the lockers.

The slushies remained in their cups.

:i:

The first live musical Kurt ever saw was "The Sound Of Music", when he was six. It was also the only live musical that Burt had gone to. Kurt's mother had took them all to the local community theatre, where the Sound of Music sing-along was to be performed. Kurt had worn a suit (jacket and all) plus a black bowtie – and not the clip on kind, the proper ones that took him ages to learn how to tie up. He had listened to the CD on loop so he would be properly prepared to sing. His mom had even handed him an old, but still glossy, programme from one of the past performances to look at.

Their seats weren't great; the three of them had to sit next to the aisle because Rose was too big to sit on Burt's lap like Elizabeth. And there was a lady with a lot of hair who obscured part of the stage. And Kurt couldn't really hear himself sing since a family of six (all girls with corn-silk plaits) were singing very enthusiastically in the row behind them.

But Kurt could hear his mom singing, her words prompting him when he forgot the lyrics. And that's probably why he bought the tickets without a second thought, as soon as he saw the advertisement online.

"_Yes!" _he exclaimed, grabbing Elizabeth off his pillow and giving her and tight hug. She yowled in protest, though knew better than to scratch his blazer.

"I'm guessing you got a good seat," she said, jumping onto the table beside Kurt's laptop. "Hurry up though, we'll be late for school."

"Perfect seats," said Kurt, beaming, "It's going to be awesome. I told Mercedes about it and she's going to come along."

"Oh good," said Elizabeth. She walked around to the back of the laptop, then used both her paws to push the lid down. "I get embarrassed when you sing over the top of the performers."

Kurt rolled his eyes, slipping the laptop into his bag and pulling on his boots.

"I hardly sing over them."

"You sing all the wrong parts!"

"Now that's just being narrow minded," said Kurt, without any real heat. He swung the bag over his shoulder, holding out his arms so Elizabeth could jump into them and avoid having to climb the stairs. He flicked off the basement lights, still unable to keep the grin off his face.

As they passed through the kitchen on the way to the door, however, Kurt paused at the sight of the covered plate by the sink. He sighed, fingering the keys in his pocket.

"Dad forgot his breakfast," he said, frowning, "Again."

Elizabeth peered over the top of his arms.

"And I made that first thing in the morning too."

"What about your own breakfast?" asked Elizabeth, pointedly.

Kurt pointed to his bag.

"Coach Sylvester has us all on strict diets. I'm going to eat the celery before class. But first, we have to make a detour to the garage."

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, ears flicking back in disgust.

"I hate celery."

"It's good for you!" said Kurt, shutting the door behind them.

"It's not good for cats."

"You're not actually a cat."

"I like fresh bagels."

"Are bagels good for cats?"

Elizabeth sulked all the way to the garage.

:i:

As expected, his dad was already in his overalls, working on a car when Kurt arrived. Rose padded over to greet him, a familiar gentle growl rumbling in her chest. Kurt gave her a smile, then turned to Burt who had his back to the garage door.

"Hey dad."

"Hey, there's my boy," said Burt, spinning one of the wheels. Then turned around when Kurt thrust a brown paper bag at him.

"You forgot your breakfast," he admonished, "Susanne Summers says that skipping breakfast is suicide."

Burt took the proffered bag and looked inside. Kurt steeled himself.

"Where's my usual breakfast?" asked Burt, looking a little crestfallen at the healthy, organic and quality breakfast Kurt had prepared. Kurt was going to be unimpressed because someone had to be responsible and look after his dad's health. He was going to be responsible and not give into feeding his father junk food.

"A coke and two slim jims?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, the breakfast of champions," said Burt, frowning.

"Dad. You're not a kid anymore. You have to start taking care of yourself."

A pause.

"I guess with enough hot sauce, this would be alright," said Burt at last, dropping the bag onto the workbench.

"Enough hot sauce," muttered Kurt, eyeing the tools and stray pieces of paper around the bench. He wondered if he could locate the bottle of said hot sauce and confiscate it in time for first period. Picking up a dismantled rear-view mirror, Kurt inspected his teeth for any breakfast. Then he checked his coif. Perhaps he needed to visit his locker and his emergency hair-spray later.

"…remember that Friday night dinner is six instead of seven this week."

On the floor by Rose's feet, Elizabeth stilled.

_Crap._

He put down the mirror.

"…I can't do this Friday," said Kurt, apologetic, "Sing along Sound of Music at the theatre. It's a once a year event."

"Friday night dinners aren't just important. They're sacred." Kurt swallowed hard, his stomach knotting itself together slowly at the disappointed expression on his father's face. "The whole point of having something scared is that it takes precedence over everything else."

"Well the Sound of Music is sacred to me!" said Kurt, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks, the way it always did when he felt guilty.

"I know it is! Wasn't I the one who bought you that Maria bonnet when you were six?"

The bonnet which was sitting on its own partitioned shelf in Kurt's walk-in wardrobe. _The Maria bonnet. _Kurt almost smiled just at the thought of it. His mom had said he looked _precious_. His thoughts were brought sharply back to earth.

"The point is, if you start giving up stuff like Friday night dinners, then you've got nothing to hold on to. Let's face it Kurt, if we don't schedule it, we don't out. If we don't hang out, then our lives – they just go right by each other. And we don't share very much."

_Not like you and Finn, _said a little voice at the back of Kurt's mind. And it hurt, not because his dad thought so, but because it was probably true. He glanced away, trying to stamp down on the jealousy and hurt welling up inside his chest. Maybe he should have gotten his dad something he liked for breakfast instead. He wondered if his dad would have had the same reaction if Kurt had declared he wanted to go to a Friday night football game instead of a musical sing-along.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, "But I'm not giving up something I've looked forward to all year just for another dinner." Pushing himself off the edge of the workbench, he made his way to open door of the garage where his car was currently parked. "Maybe we could do it dinner on Thursday or something."

There was a moment of silence. It made Kurt's steps falter to a stop.

"I gotta tell you Kurt," said Burt at last, turning around, "I'm real disappointed in you."

Kurt inhaled sharply: the words felt like a slap to the face. His dad's disappointment was a wash of emotion which tugged at Kurt in a sick, heavy sensation. In the end, he couldn't think of anything to say. So he exhaled slowly, then turned on his heels and continued walking towards his car. He hands had just touched the door handle when he felt a painful tug inside his chest.

"Elizabeth!" he snapped, "_Come_."

And it was another moment before his daemon left Rose's side, reluctantly trailing Kurt into the car. The uncomfortable tugging sensation faded as Elizabeth drew closer. They were going to be late.

At this point in time, Kurt had no way of knowing how he would be almost too late.

:i:

"Who can tell me the difference between first and second degree _Anima Tactus. _Mr. Anderson?"

Like most teachers at Dalton, Ms. Aston was demanding of her pupils. Talking, slacking and general inattention was not tolerated. However she was known to be particularly strict, and Blaine had been following the lesson with his textbook and notebook spread across the width of the desk in front of him. Even so, getting his name called always gave him an uncomfortable lurching feeling somewhere in his chest. Audrey helpfully planted a paw next to the relevant paragraph on the page in front them and Blaine managed to glance down quickly and scan the sentence. He cleared his throat.

"Typically first degree Anima Tactus is defined to be below five seconds of contact time… whereas second degree is much longer…?"

"Correct," she said, "Though of course only partially. Time can only measure a very small fraction of the true extent of Anima Tactus, because other psychological influences are often much more important. And that, gentlemen, is why there is an entire office of the Magisterium that deals with the definition of Anima Tactus and its offences. Medical professionals are required, under the law, to file any known cases of Anima Tactus. Who can tell me under which circumstances is Anima Tactus classified as an offence? Mr. Cooper?"

Beside Blaine, Wes was sitting in a way that was a strange combination of a straight-backed sprawl. He tilted his head to the side, spinning a monogrammed silver pen between his fingers.

"When the question of consent comes into play," he answered promptly, "Under the 1982 Act for the Protection of Souls, _Anima Tactus_ can only be prosecuted when it is non-consensual. Non-consensual Third degree is a capital offense in most of the Magisterium States in Europe, except Switzerland and Norway. There is a call for amendment for second degree cases of Anima Tactus: a necessary step seeing as _duration_ is hardly an accurate measurement for consent, no matter how scientific."

The teacher paused, and Blaine could tell she was impressed – though not really surprised. No one in the class was surprised, not when it came to Wes and legislation. Audrey nosed at the open textbook until the page flipped over.

"He sounds like a robot when he starts talking about stuff like that," whispered Audrey conspiratorially. Then he ducked his head behind Blaine's hand when Messina, Wes' hawk daemon, turned her head sharply to the right. Blaine snorted, glancing at Wes and then put his hand up. Ms. Aston nodded towards him, and he took it was permission to speak.

"Necessary?" Blaine echoed, "If consent has been given, Anima Tactus is hardly a capital offence, is it?"

"It's your _soul_, Blaine," said Wes, shifting in his seat so they were face to face, "to contact another's soul is neither normal nor psychologically healthy. The fact that only Third Degree cases can be formally trialled is absolute bullshi-"

Blaine was starting to feel a familiar irritation beneath his skin.

"Studies have shown that the act of Anima Tactus are not negative, contrary to popular belief – it strengthens emotional relationships for example. Are you saying that all cases should go to trial? Really?"

"What I'm saying," said Wes, slowly, drawing the words out, "Is that non-consensual cases of Anima Tactus: regardless of _S.S defined _degree, should be treated with the same severity. It's _rape._"

And really, that dig at his parents was just too much.

"You-!"

"Alright, gentlemen," interrupted Ms. Aston, before things could spiral out of control, "This will be a debate for another day. In the meanwhile, we are going to study the consequences of first and second degree Anima Tactus for the next few lessons, firstly from a scientific perspective _then_ the sociological and ethical implications. I want you all to turn to page seventy two and read the relevant chapter before Wednesday-" the bell rang outside in the corridor, "-dismissed!"

There was a flurry of blazers and the scraping of chairs across wooden floor as Blaine's classmates made a barely-dignified dash for lunch.

"I love how Dalton allows us to research and debate social taboo in class," said David, snapping his textbook shut. At the tense silence between his two friends, he glanced from Wes to Blaine then back again before saying, "Well. When I say _us_, I mean you two."

"If Blaine refrains from bringing in his obvious bias, I will attempt not to verbally slam him to the ground," said Wes, in a tone that suggested he was only half joking. He tucked his own, unopened, books into his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"_Excuse me_ if the Spiritus Sancti are _employed _by the Magisterium to, oh I don't know," said Blaine, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "provide expert advice and study in this very area. There needs to be a clear, scientific way of measuring-"

"-soul rape?" interjected Wes, before Blaine could finish.

"I wish you'd stop saying that word," David complained.

"Biology is not the place for your father's legislative reforms," said Blaine, bluntly. On his knee, Audrey stiffened, the swaying of his tail freezing mid-swing.

"Blaine, give it a rest-" he said, paws tucked primly beneath his chin.

"Legislative- seriously guys. Let's not start this again," said David.

"Oh don't take everything so personally," said Wes. He smiled, the expression tugging at the corner of his mouth as he held out his hand for Messina. The hawk leapt gracefully onto his wrist, talons digging into the leather cuff there.

Blaine opened his mouth, but Audrey sunk his small claws into the leg of Blaine's uniform pants and he almost kicked the leg of the table. Neither Wes nor David seemed to notice his hiss of pain, however, and Audrey only stared back defiantly when Blaine gave him an accusing glare.

"Wes just doesn't want you to cramp his style," said David in a mock whisper, "Bloody know-it-all."

The know-it-all in question punched David on the shoulder with his free hand, and just like that, the bubble of tension broke. David laughed, too loud like he always did, and slung an arm around Wes' shoulder. Blaine rolled his eyes, stuffing his books into his bag and following his friends out of the classroom.

"Come on," said Wes, "I think it's pasta for lunch. We can debate the ethics of daemons after that."

"Orrrrrrrr we can play guitar hero in my room," said David.

Blaine shook his head.

"Sheet music for the Warblers – that new arrangement Matt came up with?"

Wes made an aborted gestured with one hand, but didn't pause as they rounded the corner and through the double doors of the dining hall.

"Oh- yeah. Let's sort that out first then, I've actually got a copy with me. Blaine, I need you to look over the tenor part because I'm not all that sure about distribution."

Politics bled through Dalton like water soaking the skin. At first glance, it wasn't so obvious. But sometimes, Blaine felt like it was slowly suffocating him, a wall that invariably divided the student body. He looked across the hall at the sea of blue and red, animals (mostly domestic ones, the odd exotic snake in their midst) trailing their human counterparts. _Souls._

He reached up to his shoulder and Audrey nuzzled the palm of his hand.

:i:

It had become so bad that even the glimpse of a letterman jacket would make him tense up in anticipation of a cold slushie or a bone-jarring locker slam. Sometimes both. He would catch himself stepping sideways, adverting his eyes…and immediately feel the hot flush of shame on his cheeks.

It didn't stop Kurt from walking the corridors with his head held high. But the strap of his bag was becoming permanently scrunched from how hard he gripped it, ripples dark as if engraved in the leather. He dreaded every ring of the bell, every slam of the locker doors and most of all he resented his dad for making him feel so guilty about going to the Sound of Music. That guilt was probably the reason why, instead of morphing into a giant predatory animal like she usually did, Elizabeth only leapt out of the way as Karofsky shoulder slammed Kurt into the nearest row of lockers as he was walking to French.

"Out of my way, homo!" Azimio called over his shoulder, and he exchanged a high-five with Karofsky. Their laughter was exaggerated, too loud for his ringing head as Kurt propped himself up into a more dignified sitting position. His back _hurt,_ and there was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He touched his jaw gingerly – there was going to be a bruise.

Elizabeth darted back towards him, feline eyes large and yellow.

"Kurt?"

"Thanks for that," Kurt snapped, not in the mood to be understanding, "Love the support."

Elizabeth recoiled.

"Are you okay?"

Kurt stood up slowly, keeping one hand on the cool metal lockers as a means of support. He had been locker-slammed almost on a daily basis this year, but the ringing in his head was particularly obnoxious today. Maybe he had hit the lockers harder than he thought.

The floor tilted slowly beneath his feet. Kurt blinked hard, fumbling for his bag and pulling it back onto his shoulder.

"Kurt?"

"We're going to be late for French," Kurt said, tilting his own head to the right. Perhaps that would make the floor a little straighter, instead of slanting like one of those puzzle-house museums. Visual illusions. He forced himself to start walking. The corridor was still full of students scrambling to get to their next class, and someone bumped into Kurt, making him stumble.

And then the pain hit him.

It was a crushing fist that tightened around his heart and somehow squeezed all the air out of his lungs at the same time. For a moment, he thought it was Elizabeth, sulking, guilty, unhappy Elizabeth punishing him by refusing to stay close. But this wasn't the uncomfortable feeling of distance – it was a wave of panic and confusion that made Kurt's vision darken to grey.

When had the floor become so close to his face?

Vaguely, Kurt registered hands on his shoulders, blond hair and a letterman jacket. He tried to flinch backwards but he wasn't sure if he had even moved.

"_Hey. Hey, are you okay? Dude someone get a teacher!"_

"_What's going o- the fuck? Hummel?"_

With great effort, Kurt managed to move his hand, trying to feel for Elizabeth's familiar warmth beside him. It was hard without any light. Who turned off all the lights in the middle of the school day?

"…Beth?"

"_I'm going to beat the shit out of Karofsky-!"_

Was that Puck? It sounded like Puck. Kurt tried to hold on to consciousness, but it was hard without any air: couldn't they tell he was suffocating?

"_Okay what is-"_

"_Mr. Schue – I just found him like-"_

"_Where is that fucker? This is so out of line-"_

"_-ambulance –"_

Kurt gave up, and the grey faded to black.

:i:

Waking was easy. Breathing was not.

Kurt blinked at the light reflecting off the cream curtains. He took in the sterile, white walls and the pale blue hospital sheets covering him. The metal bars at the end of his bed looked cold to touch. He experienced a moment of panic, heartbeat racheting up until he noticed Elizabeth curled up on the bed next to him. There was a blue towel beneath her – presumably someone had carried her in.

He was in a hospital, that much was obvious.

_But why?_

It hurt to move. It was a strange sensation; the pain was like a phantom pain, lodged behind his throat and somewhere in his chest. He tried to move his fingers – and after a few long moments, Kurt managed to bring his hand up so he could place his palm over Elizabeth. She was still a cat, small and skinny, flank rising and falling slightly in tandem to the flutter of a heartbeat.

It took another moment for Kurt to realise what was wrong –

"Beth?" he said, voice hoarse from disuse. He shook his daemon gently, but Elizabeth didn't open her eyes. "Elizabeth, wake up."

She lay still, barely breathing.

Something was beeping faster and faster. It was one of the machines. Kurt wished it would stop, the sound was making his head hurt and _why was Elizabeth unconscious?_

"Beth!"

Suddenly the door to the room opened and several people entered in a flurry of activity. A doctor in a white lab-coat stopped by Kurt's side.

"Mr. Hummel-"

"What happened? Why is my daemon not – What's wrong with her?"

"Mr. Hummel, you must calm down," a hand on his chest pushed Kurt gently but firmly back onto the bed, "Your daemon should be fine for the moment."

"Then why is she-"

"I will explain everything in a moment – please just calm down, it's very important. Take slow breaths – in, out."

Kurt tried to obey, pushing the confusion to the back of his mind and concentrated on breathing through his nose. He held his breath for a couple seconds, before letting it out slowly, forcing his own heart to slow down. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, the other still clutching Elizabeth. He tried to match his breathing to her heartbeat, counting them out in his head like a mantra.

"That's good," said the doctor. A nurse handed Kurt a plastic cup of water, and he took it with unsteady hands. He could feel the cold water travel all the way down his throat when he swallowed. Elizabeth didn't stir.

"What happened?" Kurt asked again, propping himself up on his elbows, glaring at the nurse who made to push him back down onto the bed.

There was a long pause.

"Your father had a heart attack," he said at last.

The words made Kurt's own heart stop. His hand froze where it had been stroking Elizabeth's fur.

"_What?_"

The man looked down at the clipboard in his hands. It was probably just to avoid looking at Kurt.

"It was brought on by arrhythmia."

It was like someone had pulled the earth out from under his feet all over again; the room swaying dangerously out of focus for one brief minute. Then, in a voice he didn't recognise as his own;

"Is he dead?"

_Oh god. Not again. Not againnotagainnotaga-_

"No," said the doctor, "he isn't. But-"

Kurt pushed himself upright, ignoring the dizzying sensation of the blood rushing away from his head.

"I want to see him."

"He isn't conscious right now… the lack of oxygen to his brain was what made him lose consciousness. Mr. Hummel, are you aware that neither you nor your father has been listed as _Anima Tactii_?"

"Please," said Kurt, through the roaring in his ears. The words hurt coming out of his throat, "I want to see him_ please_."

He tried to slide his legs over the edge of the bed, but this time the doctor actually took hold of his shoulders and pushed him back down onto the bed.

"Mr. Hummel – you collapsed at school minutes after someone rang the hospital for your father. That reaction alone is indicative of Second Degree-"

Kurt shook his head.

"I don't understand what you're saying. Can I just see him? I just want to see-"

But the doctor pressed on, glancing worriedly at the heart monitor that was beeping faster with each moment that separated Kurt and his father – he just wanted to see his with his own eyes that his dad was_ alive._

"- which means that any heightened stress on your part could very well have a negative effect on your father's condition!"

That made Kurt freeze. For a long, long moment, he could only stare up blankly. _Dad. _Kurt counted Elizabeth's heartbeat beneath his fingers, willing it to slow, to steady. He gathered her limp body from the towel on the bed and clutched her close to his chest, trying not to panic. If he panicked-

"When is he going to wake up?" Kurt asked, finally, voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor, seemingly satisfied that Kurt wasn't about to attempt to get up anytime soon, stepped back a little from the bed. His expression was still so sombre, the kind that adults wore when they told you that your mother wasn't coming home with you because she was _dead._

"I don't know," said the doctor. "His condition is critical, but stable for the moment. It is too risky to conduct any Contact tests between the two of you, but I think it is safe to say that the bond is sufficiently high to illicit such an Echo. You went into shock soon after your father's heart attack – it was a delayed reaction, but considering the distance between the two of you at the time...It's rem- worrying. You've been unconscious for over a day."

The doctor consulted his notes.

"Definitely second degree. What do you know of _Anima Tactus_, Mr. Hummel?"

It was strange to have Elizabeth so still. It was _wrong _and jarring like a phantom pain just below the heart. It was like part of Kurt had been ripped away; leaving a raw, numb emptiness behind. Kurt wondered if he would feel it if his dad died. He wondered if he would die too.

"Mr. Hummel? When did the act of contact happen?"

Kurt stroked Elizabeth's head, where it lay against his shoulder. Her ears were velvet soft.

"It's none of your business," he said without looking up.

"On the contrary, I am legally bound to investigate any instances of _Anima Tactus_," said the doctor, sounding apologetic, "It's rare Mr. Hummel, you must know, especially one to this degree. Who initiated contact?"

Kurt wondered if any of the Glee Club knew he was in hospital. Perhaps they were sitting outside right now, Mercedes demanding to come in, demanding to know what happened. Puck had been there, hadn't he? Had he gone after Azimio and Karofsky? Kurt could see him now, slouched in a plastic chair, knuckles bruised, a smug grin on his face. Mr. Schue pacing the waiting room. Maybe Carol was here.

Elizabeth felt small and fragile in his arms, and for the first time, Kurt wished she would shift into a bird, a lioness – anything. Anything at all, just to show him she was alright. But asides from the thread pulse at her throat and the rise and fall of her ribs, his daemon was limp and still in his hands.

"I was eight," said Kurt finally, "after my mother's funeral. Rose hugged me."

The sound of pen on paper. Someone poured water into a cup, and a door slammed in the distance. Kurt stared at Elizabeth.

"Why won't she wake up?"

The doctor paused in his writing. Then he pulled the bedside chair closer to Kurt and sat down. Kurt moved backwards instinctively, the pity in the doctor's expression making him cringe. He clutched Elizabeth tighter, her fur pressed to his skin.

"Eight is a pretty young age," said the doctor, "Though we have never seen a case like this before, I think the time has allowed the bond to strengthen exponentially since the Contact. Your daemon is…linked, and so are you, by extension. I don't know why exactly – but I can only conclude that as _Anima Tactii_, the physiological effects of the bond has manifested itself in your daemon. That is to say, until your father recovers, your daemon may also remain unconscious."

And if he died-

"I want to see him," said Kurt quietly.

It was a moment before the doctor nodded. He got up from the chair, clipboard tucked beneath one elbow.

It was another moment before Kurt realised that his face was damp with tears, and that he had been crying.

:i:

"Dad? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Beside the white hospital bed, Rose lay on the floor. She was very still, apart from her breathing. Rose looked like she was just sleeping, the _rise _and_ fall _of her back matching that of the little cat who lay curled at the foot of the bed. The only way Kurt knew his father was breathing was because he could hear each laboured breath through the plastic tubes.

"Just squeeze my hand."

A clock ticked out an unsteady rhythm on the wall opposite the door, like a metronome left to run in a deserted choir room after the music had long since gone. Keeping his fingers tucked in his father's hand, Kurt knelt down beside his father's daemon, heart lodged in his throat. Tentatively, he placed his hand in the bear's thick fur. He pushed against her shoulder.

"Rose?"

But Rose remained sleeping, even when Kurt pushed a little harder.

"Dad?"

:i:

Kurt remained in the hospital that night. He stayed all day, curled up beside Rose and refusing to leave, ignoring Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury when they arrived. He thought he heard Mercedes voice, amongst others outside the hospital room, but he couldn't be sure. Kurt was too afraid to sleep, afraid to leave the room, too afraid to witness something he couldn't live through, yet terrified of not being there when it happened. _If _it happened. _If._

Rose flickered into nothingness at three o'clock in the morning.

Kurt didn't stop screaming until she had reappeared in a static rush of beeping from the heart-monitor. Dimly he was aware of someone gripping his shoulders, _please, calm, sedation._ Suddenly, there were too many people in the room, the fluorescent lights hurting his eyes. But the beeping went on, drumming a mantra into Kurt's skull.

Exhausted, he passed out from where he was curled up next to Rose.

:i:

When Kurt woke again, it was to a completely unfamiliar living room.

For a moment, he panicked, hands flying out. He sat bolt upright when he couldn't find Elizabeth anywhere, and the movement dislodged a thick blanket that had been tucked around his shoulders. In the light reflecting off the tall glass cases all around the walls, he finally made out the lump beside him: it was Elizabeth, still unconscious, curled up in a nest of blankets. Instinctively, Kurt lifted her up until she was cradled close to his chest. Only then did he take a good look at his surroundings.

He was in a small living room, sitting on a pull-out couch that had been serving as his makeshift bed. There was a brass clock hanging on the wall. Every other inch was obscured by tall wood-and-glass cabinets that held glittering gold and silver trophies of every shape a size. The room light was off, but a sliver of light painted a bright stripe across the carpet from a door left ajar. Faintly, Kurt could smell something cooking.

"…hello?" he tried, then cleared his throat. It was dry as sandpaper. "Hello?"

The sound of a lid being placed on a pot, then footsteps.

"Lady, you're awake," said Sue Sylvester.

Kurt blinked in confusion.

"Coach Sylvester?"

It was completely disorienting to see Sue Sylvester out of her coach uniform of red and white. Her clothing was completely nondescript; a shirt and comfortable looking sweatpants. Kurt blinked some more. The eagle perched on Sue's shoulder stared at him with an unwavering gaze.

"Is this…? What am I doing here?"

"You're here because, under my extensive rights as the greatest cheerleading coach ever to have lived, I am now your temporary guardian. That is to say, I get to tell you what to do and you must do it. Drink this glass of water."

Kurt took the proffered glass in one hand, the other still clutching Elizabeth. After a pause, he took a sip.

"Officially you are a crippled child. It would be a crime to leave you to fend for yourself: you'll probably burn the house down. You're staying with me. When your father gets better, you can move back into whatever box you live in."

Kurt took another sip of water, trying to hide the tears prickling behind his eyes. He swallowed hard and managed the first smile in what felt like months.

"Thank you," he said, voice wavering only a little, "For saying _when. _Not _If_."

There was a long pause.

Then Sue said, in a tone of voice Kurt had never heard her use before;

"Alright. I'm going to feed you now, so you don't die of malnutrition. No- stay right where you are."

And with that, she swept out of the room. Kurt could hear the clatter of cutlery and a few minutes later Sue reappeared, holding a tray laden with something that smelled like chicken soup. Sue Sylvester making chicken soup. Under any other circumstances, Kurt probably would have been more surprised.

Sue pulled out a sturdy looking coffee table, setting it close to the arm of the sofa. She slid the tray onto the polished wooden table-top, then brandished a large silver spoon in Kurt's face.

"Right. Do I need to feed you?"

Kurt shook his head quickly. Then regretted it when the room spun, floor tilting a little before balancing back into a straight line.

"No," he said, then: "Thank you."

"It's organic, gourmet cuisine," said Sue. And because she was watching him so intently, Kurt took a large spoonful of soup. The taste was overwhelming; at once delicious and nauseating. He realised he was starving. He took another spoonful.

"..two Michelin stars, you know," Sue was saying, "Not that I get to exercise my culinary talents very often anymore, what with my blooming political career."

Her daemon had migrated from Sue's shoulder to a conveniently placed perch near the back of the sofa. Kurt was very aware of the eagle behind him as he worked his way through the bowl of soup. To be fair, it did taste fabulous.

"I didn't know you liked cooking," he said, in between mouthfuls.

Sue regarded him with an indescribable expression.

"Well, it's not so much a passion as a necessary skill. My parents were highly skilled Nazi hunters, you know – hardly ever home. I cooked for my sister."

Kurt nodded along, taking another spoonful of soup until the spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. It was slow, eating one handed, but he didn't want to let go of Elizabeth. She hadn't woken, hadn't stirred, and Kurt couldn't shake the fear that was a constant presence in his mind. The silence was deafening.

"We can make a trip tomorrow to get your things," said Sue, "Though not your entire girly wardrobe, thank you."

Kurt nodded again. He place the spoon carefully by the bowl, the adjusted Elizabeth so that her head rested at the crook of his neck. This way, he could feel her little puffs of breath, her heartbeat resting above his own. He wondered if she would ever wake; and if she did, would she have settled? She had been in this form for more than two days now, a small cat with white socks. Kurt couldn't tell if he felt any different; he was still numb, mind tired with worry.

"Can we go to the hospital in the morning?" he asked quietly.

There was a pause.

"Yes," said Sue – and the tenderness in her voice made Kurt look up – "Of course we can." Her daemon made a strange, crooning sound from its perch.

"Okay," said Kurt.

"But you're not going back to school," said Sue. Kurt frowned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"What? But I have to go-"

"Nonsense. It's far too dangerous with your daemon out of commission like that. No, you're staying here, nursing your health-"

"But-!"

"- so that both you and your father can make a speedy recovery. Do you hear?"

Kurt buried his nose between Elizabeth's ears.

"Yes Coach," he said. Sue smiled, the expression curling the side of her mouth.

"Too right," she said, gathering up the tray with its bowl and used up napkin. "Now take another nap. It's only six – I'll wake you in a few hours for more food. You look like a starving poster child."

Kurt sat up a little straighter.

"If the hospital-"

"I'll wake you straight away," said Sue, "Now nap."

Kurt watched her leave the room, closing the kitchen door with a soft _click. _The only light came from the gap from under the door; the shadows were velvet soft, lengthening across the living room to brush against Kurt's toes. Slowly, he let himself sink back into the sofa-bed. The pillow smelled new and unfamiliar, the blanket a little heavy on his chest. He clutched Elizabeth close, trying to find comfort in the contact of skin on fur.

"It's so strange without you," he said into the semi-darkness, "It's like I'm suddenly alone in my head."

Elizabeth didn't react. Kurt stroked her ears, blinking back tears.

"Just say something?"

He wished for Elizabeth wake up. He wished it so hard it made his chest ache with it. He wished for her to purr and stretch with a lazy flick of her tail because that would mean his dad was alright, it would mean his dad would stir awake and the doctors would rush into that rectangle-white hospital room, exclamations of relief, Rose would be alright, she wouldn't vanish when Kurt blinked, not like his mother, not like his mum and Sue would wake him up with a small smile to say-

Slowly, Kurt fell asleep, the world going fuzzy around the edges.

There was a quiet rustle of feathers. An eagle blinked his golden eyes, standing watch over the sleeping boy on the sofa.

:i:

**Author's Notes: **Click here for those wondering about Sue's Daemon (yes, your suspicions are correct!). Phew! This chapter was written in bits and pieces all over the place, so I apologise for the choppiness. Coming up next – Kurt+Blaine meet at last! :D I hope you guys are enjoying this not-canon, the plot is just getting started. 3


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